the  universtty 


OF  ILLINOIS 


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PLAIN  TALKS. 


DK.  HOLLAND’S  WOKKS. 

BRIGHTWOCD  EDITION. 

Each  in  one  volume  16>mo,  Cabinet  Size. 

BITTER-SWEET:  a Poem, $1  50 

KATHRINA:  a Poem, 1 50 

LETTERS  TO  YOUNG  PEOPLE, 1 60 

GOLD-FOIL,  hammered  from  popular  Proverbs,  1 75 

LESSONS  IN  LIFE, 1 76 

PLAIN  TALKS,  on  Familiar  Subjects,  • . . 1 75 


BRIGHTWOOD  EDITION. 


PLAIN  TALKS 

ON 

FAMILIAR  SUBJECTS. 


A SERIES  OF  POPULAR  LECTURES. 


Br  J.  G.  HOLLAND. 


NEW  YORK: 

SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG  & CO., 

SUCCESSORS  TO 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER  & CO., 

654  BROADWAY. 

1872. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  o+*  Congress,  in  tne  year  1 865, 

By  CHARLES  SCRIBNER, 

In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for 
the  Southern  District  of  New  Yo^-k 


?/4- 
H71 
11  72- 

M . (p 


THESE  LECTURES 

AEE  DEDICATED 
TO  THOSE 

POE  WHOM  THEY  WEEE  OEIGINALLY  WEITTEN, 
TO  THE  MEMBEES  OF  THE 

LYCEUMS  AND  LECTURE  ASSOCIATIONS 

OF  THE 

UNITED  STATES.  _ 


CONTENTS. 


L — Self-Help,  9 

IL— Fashion, 45 

HL— WoEK  AND  Plat, 76 

rv.— WOBKING  AND  SHEBKINa, Ill 

V.— High  Life  and  Low  Life, 147 

VI.— The  National  Heart, 183 

Vn.— Cost  and  Compensation, 218 

Vm. — Art  and  Life, 254 

IX.— The  Popular  Lecture, 290 


PREFACE. 


Evert  accepted  speaker  before  the  lecture-asso- 
ciations of  the  country  hears  the  frequent  expres- 
sion of  a wish,  on  the  part  of  his  audiences,  to 
secure  in  type  the  utterances  of  his  tongue.  My 
own  experience  in  this  respect  has  not  been  excep- 
tional; and,  in  pubhshing  this  volume  of  lectures, 
I fulfil  a promise  repeatedly  made  to  those  who 
have  heard  them  from  the  platform.  It  seems 
legitimate  to  conclude  that  that  is  not  valueless  on 
the  printed  page  which  has  been  received  vuth  fa- 
vor by  many  audiences,  in  nearly  every  Northern 
State  of  the  Union.  I am  sure  it  will  revive  some 
pleasant  memories;  and  I hope  it  may  renew  some 
useful  impressions. 

These  lectures  have  been  written  at  different 
periods  during  the  last  six  or  seven  years.  These 


PREFACE 


years  have  been  eventful  ones  in  American  history; 
and  they  have  given  point  and  coloring  to  much 
that  the  volume  contains.  It  has  not  been  deemed 
desirable  to  introduce  changes  in  the  text,  in  order 
to  adapt  it  to  altered  times  and  circumstances,  or 
to  append  notes  explanatory  of  incidents  and  events 
that  have  retired  from  the  field  of  current  intei*est 
into  history.  Such  lectures  as  bear  the  stamp  of 
any  time  bear  the  stamp  of  their  own  time,  and 
sufficiently  explain  themselves. 


Spbingfield,  Mass.,  July^  1865. 


J.  G.  H. 


SELF-HELP. 


HE  power  of  seK-help — ^the  power  tliat  sits  be- 


hind, or  sits  above,  all  other  human  powers — 
the  motive  force  of  progress — the  mother  element 
of  history — ^is,  perhaps,  the  most  interesting  and 
the  most  wonderful  to  which  we  can  tmm  our  at- 
tention. In  it  abide  the  germs  of  ah  individual 
growth  and  development.  Of  it  are  born  aU  tho 
facts  and  aU  the  phenomena  of  human  civilization 
It  is  this  power  which  distinguishes  man  among, 
or  from,  animals.  Curious  philosophers  have  vari- 
ously characterized  man  as  a laughing  animal,  a 
talking  animal,  a reasoning  animal ; but  the  func- 
tions upon  which  these  distinctions  are  based  can 
hardly  be  deemed  radically  characteristic ; for  all 
animals  laugh,  and  talk,  and  reason,  in  their  own 
way.  The  power  of  self-help,  however,  cannot  be 
predicated  of  any  animal  but  man — the  power  to 
conceive  and  achieve  a higher,  better,  and  ration- 
ally more  desirable  character  and  condition  than 


10 


SELF  HELP. 


he  possesses.  It  is  not  a development  of  the  ani- 
mal life  at  all,  but  stands  above  it — stands  upon  it 
— and  lifts  the  hand  by  which  man  links  himself  in 
alliance  with  God  and  the  angels.  All  art,  all 
science,  all  agencies  that  give  man  power  over  na- 
ture and  over  his  own  destiny,  all  civilizing  forces 
whatsoever,  are  emanations  of  this  power.  All  in- 
spirations from  above  are  addressed  to  it.  All  am- 
bitions have  root  in  it.  AU  emulations  are  sug- 
gested and  supported  by  it.  It  is  the  main-s]pring 
which  moves  the  wheels  of  the  world’s  industry. 
It  is  in  short  the  characteristic  power  of  man,  and 
that  which  crowns  him  with  divine  possibilities. 

This  faculty  of  seK-help,  then — this  power  of 
building  exalted  ideals  of  life  and  character,  and  of 
realizing  those  ideals  by  seK-elevation  to  them  and 
into  them — ^the  power  of  voluntaiy  development  in 
the  individual  and  of  civilization  in  society,  is  that 
which  distinguishes  man  from  all  the  forms  of  hfe 
we  know.  It  would  be  delightful  to  devote  the 
hour  to  a liistorical  and  philosophical  consideration 
of  this  characteristic  power  of  man.  It  would  be 
pleasant  to  draw  from  biography  and  from  history 
illustrations  of  its  operation,  because  the  grateful 
task  would  be  simply  to  sketch  the  story  of  the 
progress  of  manldnd.  We  should  see  how  impul- 
sive childhood  has,  by  the  inborn  power  of  self- 
help,  risen  into  rational  manhood  ; — how  rude  bar- 
barism has,  by  its  patient  hands,  climbed  slowly 
up  the  centuries  into  cmlization — how  it  has  con- 
structed and  used,  and  destroyed  and  reorganized, 


SELF  HELP. 


11 


institritions — ^how  Christianity  itseK  came  down  to 
meet  and  aid  it,  and  to  join  hands  with  it  for  the 
world’s  regeneration.  But  our  discussion  will  take 
a lower  and  more  practical  range. 

You  are  aware  that,  for  the  past  twenty  or 
twenty-five  years,  there  has  been  a great  deal  of 
talk  about  seK-help,  self-culture,  seK-disciphne, 
and  seK-made  men.  The  young,  and  particularly 
those  who  have  had  httle  to  do  with  the  schools, 
have  been  addressed  through  ingeniously  written 
biographies,  through  anecdotes  of  humble  men 
who  have  risen  in  the  world,  through  proverbs, 
maxims,  exhortations,  and  aiDpeals  in  prose  and 
verse — every  imaginable  thing,  indeed,  adapted  to 
reach  and  rouse  unlettered  ambition.  In  all  the 
teachings  on  this  subject  there  has  been  a measure 
of  truth,  and  always,  perhaps,  a laudable  motive; 
but  it  contains  so  much  of  falsehood — ^it  has  led  so 
many  men  into  fatal  mistakes — ^it  is  so  mischievous 
in  the  social,  pohtical,  and  professional  hfe  of  this 
country — ^that  the  time  is  fully  come  when  the  pub- 
hc  thought  should  be  critically  directed  to  it. 

We  have  had,  and  we  now  have,  a class  of  writers 
whose  avowed  purpose  it  is  to  stimulate  the  hum- 
ble to  rise  in  the  world, — not  to  rise  into  manly  ex- 
cellence in  their  own  sj)here ; but,  irrespective  of 
their  tastes  and  talents,  to  rise  out  of  their  sphere. 
Biographies  of  men  of  genius  are  written  with  the 
direct  intent  to  excite  the  whole  class  out  of  which 
these  exceptional  men  sprang  into  an  imitation  of 
their  efforts.  Here  and  there,  doubtless,  some 


12 


SELF  HELP, 


worthy  nature  gets  encouragement  from  these  nar- 
ratives ; but  the  general  effect  is  to  start  young 
men  into  courses  of  life,  and  lead  them  to  the 
adoption  of  callings  and  professions,  to  which  they 
have  no  natural  adaptation. 

The  lesson  of  the  hves  of  these  men  is  not  left  to 
be  gathered  by  the  common  sense  of  their  readers  ; 
but  the  biographies  are  written  for  the  sake  of  the 
lesson,  and,  of  course,  the  lesson  is  pointedly 
shaped  to  its  purpose.  The  idea  kept  prominently 
uppermost  in  those  biographies,  as  in  all  the  teach- 
ings of  their  writers,  is,  that  a man  may  be  any- 
thing that  he  chooses  to  become ; that  will,  deter- 
mination, purpose,  labor,  perseverance,  vdll  ac- 
comphsh  anything — all  true  with  relation  to  some 
men,  and  all  false  mth  relation  to  the  majority  of 
men.  The  effect  of  this  upon  bright  men,  who 
have  sense  enough  to  see  what  land  of  a hfe  they 
are  adapted  to,  and  who  do  not  need  the  stimulus 
which  works  like  these  are  calculated  to  supply,  is, 
of  course,  not  bad  ; but  the  stupid,  the  weak,  the 
obtuse,  the  slow,  are  those  generally  who  read  the 
books,  and  who  are  influenced  by  them  into  a hfe 
for  which  they  have  no  natui'al  fitness. 

Let  us,  for  a moment,  look  at  some  of  the  maxims 
which  these  biographies  are  intended  to  illustrate, 
and  wLich  are  in  frequent  use  themselves.  ‘ ‘ Where 
there’s  a will  there’s  a way” — one  of  the  largest 
hes  ever  palmed  off  ux^on  credulous  humanity. 
Everybody  has  a will  to  be  rich ; but  there  is  no 
way  for  everybody  to  be  rich;  there  is  no  way  for 


SELF  HELP. 


13 


one  man  in  ten  to  be  rich.  I suppose  that  at  least 
a thousand  men  have  a will  to  become  President  of 
the  United  States  ; but  there  is  no  way  for  one  in 
live  hundred  of  them  to  achieve  the  object  of  his 
ambition.  There  is  a pretty  universal  will  for 
social  or  pohtical  distinction ; but  the  laudable 
ways  of  obtaining  it  are  not  many  nor  easy. 

“Labor  conquers  all  things” — another  he,  as  it 
is  accepted  and  used.  The  power  of  the  laborer 
must  be  equal  to  the  power  required  by  his  task, 
or  his  labor  will  conquer  nothing.  Set  an  ass  to 
carry  an  elephant’s  burden,  and  his  back  will  be 
broken.  The  man  of  few  brains  cannot  do  the 
w^ork  of  the  man  of  many  brains.  Labor  may  read 
many  books,  without  conquering  one  of  them. 
Labor  may  read  Shakspere ; but  labor  alone  did 
not  write  Shakspere,  and  labor  alone,  without 
Shakspere’s  brains,  can  never  equal  him. 

“Nothing  is  impossible  to  him  who  wills” — a 
sentence  of  Mr.  Emerson’s,  I think,  though  only  a 
repetition  of  a Chinese  maxim,  and  about  as  true 
as  we  should  naturally  suppose  a Chinese  maxim 
would  be. 

Now  these  maxims,  and  the  biogTapliies  and 
anecdotes  which  are  written  to  illustrate  and  en- 
force them,  all  say  to  the  boy  and  the  young 
man  this:  “You  can  make  of  yourself  anything 
you  may  choose  to  make.  To  become  a great 
preacher,  or  a great  lawyer,  or  a great  physician, 
or  a great  financier,  or  a great  statesman,  all  thafc 
it  is  necessary  for  you  to  do  is  to  will,  to  labor,  and 


li 


SELF-HELP. 


to  persevere.”  Like  the  accommodating  showman, 
who  was  inquired  of  as  to  which  might  be  the  kan- 
garoo and  which  the  hyena  in  his  collection,  they 
say  : “ Yichever  you  please,  gentleman ; you  pays 
your  money  and  you  takes  your  choice.”  All  they 
have  to  do  is  to  pay  the  requisite  amount  of  labor, 
and  the  key  of  destiny  will  be  placed  in  their 
hands. 

It  is  under  spurs  hke  these  that  multitudes  of 
men  come  up,  and  enter  into  walks  of  hf e for  which 
they  have  no  natural  fitness.  Yictims  of  the  false 
ideas  promulgated  upon  this  subject  may  be 
counted  by  thousands  in  this  country — disap- 
pointed men — ^unquahfied  for  the  posts  they  have 
patiently  and  faithfully  labored  to  reach  and  fill, 
and  spoiled  for  the  range  of  hfe  in  which  they  nat- 
urally belonged. 

But,  before  I go  farther  in  this  direction,  I have 
another  matter  to  discuss,  which  may  be  introduced 
by  the  proposition  that  every  weU-made  man  is  a 
self-made  man.  It  matters  not  whether  he  rise 
from  vulgar  property,  or  vulgar  riches ; ^vhether 
his  roots  be  planted  in  high  or  humble  hfe ; 
whether  he  have  the  advantage  of  books  and  pre- 
ceptors, or  whether  he  acquire  his  education  by 
direct  contact  with  facts  and  things ; whether  he 
be  a day-laborer  in  the  garden  of  liis  neighbor,  or 
a life-laborer  in  the  vineyard  of  his  Lord  ; if  he  be 
a well-made  man,  he  is  alv-ays  a self-made  man. 

I mean,  by  this,  that  there  is  no  instituted  pro- 
cess by  which  a true  manhood  may  be  manufao- 


SELF-HELP. 


15 


tured ; that  there  is  no  educational  mill  which  takes 
in  boys  and  turns  out  men ; that  aU  who  become 
men  of  power  reach  their  estate  by  the  same  self- 
mastery,  the  same  self -adjustment  to  circumstances, 
the  same  voluntary  exercise  and  disciphne  of  their 
faculties,  and  the  same  working  of  their  hfe  up  to, 
and  into,  their  high  ideals  of  hfe. 

The  popular  notion  is,  that  only  he  is  a self- 
made  man  who,  vdthout  the  aid  of  schools,  or  the 
regular  processes  of  education,  arrives  at  excellence, 
in  knowledge,  or  who,  without  the  advantages  of 
wealth  and  culture,  achieves  high  position. 

The  self-made  man  is  thus,  in  the  popular  appre- 
hension, a remarkable  man — a most  honorable  and 
worthy  exception  to  the  general  rule.  A day- 
laborer,  for  instance,  acquires  in  the  intervals  of  his 
toil  a score  of  languages,  and  he  is  dubbed  a seK- 
made  man,  though  his  acquisitions  may  be  useless 
to  the  community  in  which  he  hves,  and  an  abso- 
lute disadvantage  to  himseK  and  his  family.  A 
man  by  craft,  and  cunning,  and  miserly  meanness, 
may  come  up  from  some  low  place,  and  acquire 
w^ealth  and,  through  wealth,  influence  ; and  straight- 
way people  will  speak  of  him  as  a self-made  man. 
A vulgar  wretch,  by  the  arts  of  the  demagogue — ^by 
chicanery,  and  duphcity,  and  bribery — ^may  arrive 
at  place  and  power  ; and  he  will  always  find  toadies 
and  tools  enough  ai-ound  him  to  glorify  hun  as  a 
self-made  man.  A iDecuhar  honor  seems  to  be  at- 
tached to  such  men  as  these,  as  if  whatever  they 
might  do  were  more  remarkable  and  creditable 


16 


SELF-HELP, 


than  if  done  by  others.  The  music  of  a corn-stalk 
fiddle  or  a pumpkin  trumpet  may  not  be  over- 
whelmingly ravishing  in  itself ; but  we  are  expected 
to  admire  it,  because  corn-stalks  and  pumpkin- vines 
are  not  materials  usually  drawn  upon  for  the  manu- 
facture of  musical  instruments. 

Of  seK-made  men  like  these,  the  high  places  of 
this  country  are  shamefully  full  to-day ; but  the 
majority  of  them  are  not  self-made  men  at  all. 
We  have  self-made  governors,  self-made  members 
of  Congress,  seK-made  preachers,  doctors,  and  law- 
yers ; self-made  sheriffs  and  justices ; self-made 
mayors  and  aldermen ; self-made  scoundrels  and 
self-made  noodles  of  various  denominations ; but 
seK-made  men  are  by  no  means  so  plenty.  It 
would  not  be  safe  to  predicate  genuine  manhood 
of  every  person  who  rises  from  poverty  to  wealth, 
or  who  hfts  himself  from  common  hfe  to  positions 
of  influence  and  power.  It  might  bring  us  into 
relations  which  would  damage  both  our  comfort 
and  om:  character,  even  should  we  be  so  fortunate 
as  to  escape  with  our  pocket-handkercliiefs  and 
watches. 

Though  the  popular  idea  of  self-made  men  in- 
cludes aU  the  classes  which  have  been  aUuded  to, 
it  is  apphed  in  a better  sense,  and  more  particularly, 
to  those  who  have  arrived  at  learning  and  legiti- 
mate personal  power  without  the  aid  of  schools. 
These  are  called  self-made  men,  to  distinguish  them 
from  coUege-made  men,  or  ‘‘university-men.”  It 
would  not  be  difficult  to  select  two  men,  of  equal 


SELF-HELP, 


17 


and  similar  natural  gifts,  representatives  respec- 
tively of  these  two  classes,  worldng  side  by  side  in 
life,  and  illustrating  the  difference  in  the  temper 
and  quahty  of  them  manhood.  It  would  not  be 
difficult  to  see  why  the  man  who  educates  himself, 
without  the  aid  of  professional  preceptors,  always 
surpasses  in  personal  power  him  who  is  simply  a 
coilege-made  man. 

Now  let  me  be  understood  mth  relation  to  what 
— for  the  purposes  of  this  discussion — caU  a col- 
lege-made man.  Let  me  first  repeat  the  proposi- 
tion that  all  well-made  men  are  self-made  men ; 
and  now  let  me  say  that  the  majority  of  self-made 
men  are  men  who  have  had  a ‘‘hberal  education.” 
A strictly  college-made  man  is  one  who  has  adopted 
and  obeyed  the  arbitrary  and  undiscriminating  laws 
of  the  schools  for  his  development ; who  has  sub- 
mitted himseK,  with  his  fellows,  to  all  the  pre- 
scribed processes ; who  has  swallowed,  without  a 
question,  the  food  prepared  alike  for  him  and 
them,  and  who  has  gone  to  the  work  of  his  hfe 
without  a paidicle  of  training  addressed  to  his 
special  individuahty,  or  without  the  slightest  knowl- 
edge of  the  relations  of  his  individuahty  to  the 
world  of  hfe  upon  which  he  has  undertaken  to  ex- 
ercise his  power.  Such  are  the  men  who  pray  by 
rote  and  preach  by  rule  ; whose  individual  personal 
IDOwer  is  absolutely  nothing ; who  are  simply  tol- 
erated as  necessary  and  cheaply-x>rocured  parts  of 
ecclesiastical  machinery.  Such  are  the  men  who 
make  mockery  of  law  ; who  hold  lorinciples  subject 


18 


SELF-HELP, 


to  precedents,  and  who  forget  justice  in  their  blind 
worship  of  words  and  forms  and  phrases.  Such 
are  the  men  who  prescribe  the  name  of  a drug  for 
fche  name  of  a disease,  and  who  lay  down  the  hves 
of  their  neighbors,  and  would  possibly  be  willing 
to  lay  down  their  own,  rather  than  depart  from 
their  old,  unreasoning  routine. 

Such  as  these  I call  college-made  men,  in  contra- 
distinction from  seK-made  men.  Both  from  col- 
lege and  from  the  world  outside,  noble,  self-made 
men  arise — ^men  who  know  their  own  individual 
powers ; who  intelligently  select  the  nutriment 
which  those  powers  demand  ; who  understand  the 
relations  of  their  individuahty  to  the  hfe  of  the 
world  ; who  place  themselves  in  contact  with  facts 
and  affairs,  and  who,  with  an  ideal  of  excellence 
before  them,  which  their  own  imaginations  have 
builded,  build  themselves  up  to  it,  and  into  it. 
Such  are  the  men  who  elect,  appropriate,  and  as- 
similate, from  the  wide  variety  of  food  presented 
to  them,  that  which  will  nourish  them,  whether  it 
come  from  the  intellectual  commons  of  coUege-hfe, 
prepared  and  presented  by  the  accredited  profes- 
sional cooks,  or  whether  it  be  hunted  dovm  in  the 
wilderness,  and  eaten  by  the  wayside. 

The  prominent  characteristic  of  self-made  men  is 
individuahty — a quality  never  characteristic  of  col- 
lege-made men.  When  I say  this,  I beg  you  to 
keep  in  mind  the  vital  distinction  between  these 
two  classes  which  I have  endeavored  to  define,  and 
the  fact  that  self-made  men  come  more  frequently 


SELF-HELP, 


19 


from  the  college  than  from  the  world  outside.  In 
any  process  of  training  to  which  they  may  be  sub- 
jected, they  never  allow  their  seK-hood  to  be 
crushed.  They  take  in  that  which  they  need ; 
they  reject  that  which  they  do  not  need — ^that 
which  bears  no  relation  to  their  individuahty. 
They  make  themselves,  and  are  not  made  by  others 
— that  is,  they  voluntarily  bring  their  powers  up  to 
the  work  which  they  see  themselves  adapted  to  do ; 
they  feed  themselves  with  relation  to  their  work ; 
they  grow  from  the  centre,  and  organize  as  they 
grow  ; and  aU  the  efforts  of  their  life  go  out  on  the 
lines  of  the  relations  of  their  individuahty  to  the 
world  and  its  affairs. 

Power,  in  its  quahty  and  degree,  is  the  measure 
of  manhood.  Scholarship,  save  by  accident,  is 
never  the  measure  of  a man’s  power.  It  may  bo 
inferior  to  his  power ; it  may  be  gi’eater  than  his 
power ; it  may  exist  unaccompanied  by  power  at 
ah,  as  it  does  in  aU  wdio  are  simply  college-made. 
All  the  positive,  progressive  thinking  and  work  of 
this  world,  are  done  by  seK-made  men.  The  'life  of 
these  men  may  pass  through  college-made  men— 
considerably  diluted — ^using  them  for  vehicles,  and 
thus  become  indefinitely  diffusive  and  effective ; 
but  ah  positive  human  power  abides  in  and  pro- 
ceeds from  those  self -nourished,  seK-sustaincd,  self- 
educated,  seK-trained  souls  that  place  themselves 
in  vital  contact  with  the  things  of  God  and  man, 
and  organize  and  use  them  according  to  their  re- 
spective individualities. 


20 


SELF-HELP. 


College-made  men  can  tell  what  they  have 
learned  by  measure.  They  can  be  called  up  and 
made  to  dehver  thoughts  upon  any  given  subject 
by  platoons.  They  have  profound  reverence  for 
authority.  They  are  always  loyal  partisans.  They 
contentedly  abide  within  the  precincts  of  creeds. 
Pure  scholarsliip  is  always  conservative.  It  clings 
to,  and  loves  to  become  the  ornament  of,  dominant 
institutions,  and  is  ever  timid  of  change.  It  swims 
easily  along  the  current  of  peaceful  life,  but  shrinks 
from  emergencies,  and  shirks  the  work  of  revolu- 
tions. It  does  not  know  how  to  deal  with  new 
questions.  It  has  no  vital,  sympathetic  connection 
with  the  hfe  of  the  world  ; and  shuts  its  ears  to  the 
din,  and  its  eyes  to  the  dust,  of  its  conflicts.  It  is 
too  often  a dead-weight  upon  social  and  pohtical 
reforms.  Its  life  is  a borrowed  and  specific  life, 
and  has  no  power  of  self-adjustment  to  the  shifting 
circumstances  of  a world  of  change,  and  the  con- 
stantly new  developments  of  a progressive  age  and 
race.  It  lives  in,  and  upon,  the  past ; and  draws 
neither  motive  from  the  present  nor  inspiration 
from  the  future. 

College-made  men  are  very  fine  ornamental-men 
— very  good  things  to  have  for  celebrations  and  oc- 
casions of  show.  They  excel  in  contributions  to 
family  newspapers.  They  collate  excellent  school- 
boolvs.  They  preach  unexceptionable  sermons  to 
veiy  exceptional  people,  and  reverently  put  off 
their  shoes  among  those  who  have  the  reputation 
of  tender  corns.  The  self-made  men  of  the  world 


SELF-HELP. 


21 


— self-made  in  college  or  out  of  college — may  be 
very  rougli  men — men  who  will  shock  yonr  preju- 
dices, and  offend  your  notions  of  propriety,  and 
scare  you  by  them  innovations,  and  horrify  you  by 
them  lack  of  reverence  for  great  names  and  venera- 
ble conventions  and  institutions  ; but  they  are  the 
only  men  whose  productions  will  possess  perma- 
nent attractions  for  you.  They  are  the  only  men 
who  can  feed  and  stimulate  and  move  you,  and 
satisfy  the  cravings  of  your  nature.  They  have 
original  power ; they  possess  individuality  : and 
the  only  fresh  things  introduced  into  the  world, 
from  year  to  year,  and  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion, are  borne  by  the  hand  of  individuahty. 

Having  exhibited  my  idea  of  the  self-made,  as 
contradistinguished  from  the  college-made,  man,  I 
am  ready  to  make  the  proposition  that  eveiy  man’s 
natural  organization  is  adapted  to  the  fulfilment  of 
a certain  office  in  the  world.  In  making  this 
proposition,  I only  say  that  God  gives  every  man 
individuahty  of  constitution,  and  a chance  for 
achieving  individuahty  of  character  ; that  He  puts 
special  instruments  into  every  man’s  hands  by 
which  to  make  himself  and  achieve  his  mission.  T 
suppose  that  the  proposition  wiU  hardly  be  contro- 
verted by  any  one.  It  certainly  must  underhe  all 
sound  theories  of  human  development,  even  if  it 
be  not  self-evident. 

Every  man,  therefore,  as  he  has  individuahty  of 
nature,  may  have  individuahty  of  character  ; and 
every  man  who  can  achieve  individuahty  of  char- 


SELF-HELP, 


acter  can  be,  either  in  a higher  or  humbler  degree, 
a self-made  man.  It  is  a fact,  I suppose,  that  there 
is  comparatively  httle  individuality  of  character  in 
the  world.  The  rule  is  against  it,  because  the  in- 
fluences of  the  world  are  against  it.  We  are  all 
soldiers  of  the  king  of  fashion,  and  dress  in  uni- 
form. We  march  in  battahons  under  the  banner 
of  public  opinion.  We  choose  our  courses  and  our 
callings,  not  with  reference  to  our  own  powers,  but 
with  reference  to  conventional  notions  touching 
the  desirableness  of  those  courses  and  callings.  In 
this  way,  the  individuahty  of  our  natures  is  sup- 
pressed and  ultimately  destroyed.  They  find  in 
the  work  which  they  are  set  to  do  nothing  to  which 
they  bear  natural  relation.  Put  a penknife  to  do 
the  work  of  an  axe,  and  you  spoil  at  once  an  instru- 
ment that  only  bears  relation  to  quills  and  finger- 
nails ; and  it  is  hardly  more  or  less  than  truth  to 
say  that  the  majority  of  men  put  themselves,  or 
are  put,  to  work  to  which  they  have  no  natural 
adai^tation. 

We  find  that,  in  the  world’s  estimate,  certain 
professions,  callings,  and  trades  are  held  highest — 
held  to  be  most  honorable  and  respectable.  So 
the  whole  world  rushes  after  them — ^rushes  into 
them  ; so  half  of  the  world  gets  out  of  its  place  at 
once,  and  loses  its  individuahty ; and  so  half  of 
the  world  gets  made  by  its  calling,  and  does  not 
make  itself  at  all. 

Now,  the  truth  is  that  every  man  is  respectable 
and  every  man  grows  in  power  symmetrically,  only 


SELF-HELP. 


23 


when  lie  is  in  liis  place.  No  man  is  respectable 
when  he  is  out  of  his  place ; no  man  can  grow  in 
characteristic  power  when  out  of  his  place.  All 
tlu’ifty  and  successful  self -making  must  depend  not 
only  upon  an  inteUigent  selection  of  nourishment  • 
for  our  powers,  but  an  intelligent  selection  of  the 
work  which  they  are  best  adapted  to  do. 

If  you  have  ever  attended  an  exhibition  of 
horses,  you  will  remember  that  they  are  presented 
in  a great  variety  of  size,  and  style  of  form  and 
action.  One  is  a truck-horse,  another  is  a farm- 
horse  ; one  is  a family-horse,  another  a saddle- 
horse  ; one  is  a fancy  horse,  and  another  a fast 
horse.  The  fast  horse  is  the  most  popular— -the 
most  admired  and  coveted  by  the  crowd.  These 
different  classes  of  horses  are  each  adapted  to  a 
different  kind  of  labor,  and  can  only  mpoiiifest  their 
individual  qualities  when  put  to  their  legitimate 
work.  They  can  only  properly  develop,  or  make 
themselves,  by  that  work.  Now  suppose,  with  a 
view  to  the  ]3opularity  of  fast  horses  as  a class,  and 
not  with  reference  to  individual  quahties  at  a^U, 
these  horses,  in  all  their  variety,  are  entered  for 
the  premium  on  speed.  Think  what  a figure  they 
would  make  on  the  course  ! The  real — the  only — 
contest,  would  be  among  those  that  have  a natural 
adaptation  to  speed ; while  the  remainder  would 
go  lumbering  along  behind,  and,  by  the  clumsiness 
of  their  extraordinary  efforts,  would  render  them- 
selves ridiculous.  Boys  would  hoot  at  them  ; dogs 
\vould  bark  at  them  ; and  they  would  come  in  so 


24 


SELF-HELP. 


far  behind  that  their  drivers  would  be  obliged  to 
join  in  the  laugh  that  would  sweep  along  the  line 
of  spectators. 

Now  drive  all  from  the  track,  and  bring  them  up 
in  classes ; and  you  will  see  that  we  have  a very 
different  result.  The  elephantine  truck-horse  walks 
slowly  by,  the  representative,  of  sturdy  strength ; 
and  there  is  nothing  ridiculous  about  him  now. 
The  docile  farm-horse  trots  quietly  along  in  fitting 
harness,  and  proves  himseK  to  be  a legitimate  ob- 
ject of  our  admiration.  The  family-horse,  at  an 
easy  pace,  bears  over  the  course  his  freight  of  avo- 
men  and  children,  and  he,  too,  is  admirable — ^nay, 
he  may  be  lovable.  The  saddle-horse  ambles  along 
under  his  rider,  and  we  pronounce  him  both 
beautiful  and  graceful.  You  perceive  that  all  these 
animals  were  ridiculous  and  contemptible  so  long 
as  they  undertook  to  do  that  to  which  their  indi- 
vidualities were  not  adapted  ; and  that  all  became 
pleasing  and  admirable,  the  moment  they  took 
their  own  place,  and  entered  upon  their  legitimate 
work. 

Now,  suppose  all  these  horses  had  actually  been 
trained  with  reference  to  the  popular  opinion  that 
speed  is  the  only  desirable  thing,  or  the  most  desir- 
able thing,  in  a horse.  Suppose  the  truck-horse, 
for  example,  had  been  put  to  his  best  as  a trotter, 
through  a long  course  of  training  : would  he  ever 
have  made  a fast  horse  ? Never ; and,  what  is 
much  more  to  be  lamented,  he  would  have  been 
spoiled  for  a truck-horse  forever.  His  wind  would 


SELF-HELP. 


25 


have  been  broken,  his  knees  started,  and  his  spirit 
ruined.  In  other  words,  his  individuality — 
thoroughly  admirable  in  itself — ^would  have  been 
destroyed.  The  same  may  be  said  of  all  the  other 
classes  of  animals  I have  mentioned.  No  possible 
training  could  make  fast  horses  of  them  ; and  they 
could  only  receive  training  for  high  speed  at  the 
cost  of  their  individuahty,  and  the  loss  of  their 
ability  to  do  that  work  well  for  which  they  were 
originally  designed. 

What  a lesson  for  us  is  there  in  this  illustration  ! 
Bear  me  witness  that  the  track  of  American  public 
and  professional  life  is  crowded  with  human  truck- 
horses  and  farm-horses  and  family- horses  and  sad- 
dle-horses, ail  entered  for  the  premium  on  speed, 
all  making  themselves  ridiculous  by  the  efforts  they 
put  forth  to  win  it,  and  all  spoihng  themselves  for 
the  sphere  to  which  their  native  individualities  are 
adapted. 

Thousands  of  these  unhappy  men  were  started 
and  stimulated  in  their  courses  by  such  general, 
indiscriminate  counsels  as  I have  alluded  to.  As 
boys — as  young  men — ^they  were  told  to  ‘‘aim 
high,’*  and  particularly  informed  that  if  they 
pointed  their  arrows  at  the  sun,  the  flight  would 
be  higher  than  it  would  be  if  the  aim  were  lower, — 
another  of  those  precious  maxims,  by-the-way,  of 
which  the  world  has  too  many ; as  if  it  were  not 
better  to  knock  from  a Virginia  fence  a respectable 
gray  squirrel,  than  to  spend  one’s  shots  on  blank 
blue  sky  1 No  man  who  can  hit  anything,  or  who 


SELF-HELP, 


2(j 


was  ever  made  to  hit  anything,  can  afford  to  waste 
liis  aiTOws  upon  an  object  which  he  knows  they 
can  never  reach.  Even  if  the  acquisition  of  learn- 
ing were  the  grand  object  of  a man,  definiteness  of 
aim  would  serve  him  better  than  indefiniteness, 
though  it  is  not  so  essential ; but  when  his  object 
is  to  cultivate  that  power  which  is  the  measure  of 
his  manhood,  his  aim  must  be  determined  by  the 
shape  of  his  arrow,  the  size  of  his  bow,  and  the 
strength  of  his  arm. 

The  prizes  of  x^rofessional  and  pohtical  fife  are 
those  which  the  great  world  of  unformed  mind  is 
taught  to  regard  not  only  as  desirable  above  all 
things,  but  as  obtainable  by  all  men  ; and,  being 
both  desirable  and  obtainable,  to  be  striven  for. 
The  effect  has  been  to  crowd  professional  fife  mth 
mountebanks  and  inferior  men,  and  pohtical  hfe 
with  demagogues.  It  will  not  be  disputed,  I siix)- 
I)ose,  that  there  are  more  men  engaged  in  the  pro- 
fessions of  law  and  medicine  than  the  country  has 
any  need  of ; more  than  can  obtain  a respectable 
hveliliood  for  themselves.  The  popular  notion — 
the  XDopular  fallacy — is,  that  if  a man  is  going  to 
make  anything  of  himself,  he  must  be  in  public  or 
l^rofessional  hfe  of  some  sort. 

I hesitate  to  speak  of  the  effect  of  these  false 
ideas  upon  the  Christian  ministry,  because  it  is  im- 
possible to  judge  how  far  they  have  been  compli- 
cated with  conscience,  honest  self -consecration, 
and  motives  of  beneficence.  A young  man  com- 
mences a course  of  training  with  reference  to  a 


SELF-HELP, 


27 


professional  life.  He  proposes,  we  will  say,  to  be- 
come a law;)"er.  Possibly  he  has  a decided  adap- 
tation to  that  profession ; but,  midway  in  his  col- 
lege course,  he  becomes  a religious  man.  Imme- 
diately— with  no  sufEcient  regard  to  the  adap  Red- 
ness of  his  individuahty  to  the  work  of  the  minis- 
try— he  determines  to  become  a preacher.  I sup- 
pose that  nine  out  of  every  ten  occupants  of  the 
American  iDulpit  were  moved  to  the  choice  of  their 
profession  by  their  hearts,  without  any  really  com- 
petent examination  of  the  quality  of  their  heads. 
One  consequence  of  this  is,  that  we  have  a Chris- 
tian ministry  in  this  country  which  embraces  a 
larger  number  of  honest,  good,  i3ure,  self-sacrific- 
ing men  than  can  be  found,  as  I believe,  in  any 
other  class  of  men  in  the  v/orld.  In  my  j udgment 
the  American  Christian  ministry  contains  the  least 
corrupted,  and  the  least  corrupfcible,  of  men  ; but, 
alas  ! I am  afraid  that  not  one  half  of  them  are 
seK-made — that  not  more  than  one  half  of  them 
have  appreciable  power  as  ministers  of  the  Gospel 
of  Jesus  Christ.  They  break  down  under  the  effect 
of  labors  for  which  they  have  no  natural  adapta- 
tion ; they  rove  unfruitful  and  unhappy  from 
pulpit  to  pulpit ; they  fail  to  command  the  atten- 
tion and  resiDect  of  the  world  around  them ; and 
they  have  the  hfe-long  grief  of  seeing  the  work  to 
which  their  hearts  are  devoted  failing  to  prosper 
in  their  hands. 

I will  not  undertake  to  decide  so  delicate  a ques- 
tion as  this  matter  involves ; but  I may  be  allowed 


28 


SELF-HELP, 


to  say  tliat  it  seems  to  me  as  if  it  were  a more 
Christian  thing  to  be  a first-rate  Christian  lawyer, 
or  a first-rate  Christian  farmer,  ox  a first-rate 
Christian  shoemaker,  than  a fifth-rate  Christian 
minister.  If  a young  man  becomes  religious,  and 
puts  his  life  under  the  law  of  love,  it  is  not  there- 
fore necessary  to  his  highest  efficiency  in  the  Mas- 
ter’s service  that  he  become  a preacher.  Nay,  the 
pulpit  may  be  the  place  of  all  others  in  the  world 
where  he  would  be  the  most  likely  to  do  damage 
to  the  cause  he  loves. 

With  a respect  for  the  Christian  ministry  of  this 
country  which  is  as  great  as  Puritan  training  and  a 
thousand  delightful  personal  friendships  can  make 
it,  I am  compelled  to  believe  that  a full  half  of  its 
members  are  httle  more  than  the  creatures  of  their 
colleges  and  the  mouth-pieces  of  their  theological 
schools  ; that  they  entered  their  profession,  not  be- 
cause they  were  adapted  to  it,  or  saw  themselves 
specially  adapted  to  it,  but  because  they  were 
moved  to  it  by  a mistaken  sense  of  duty,  or  a false 
idea  of  professional  life.  It  seems  to  me  that  one 
of  the  most  pitiful  objects  in  this  world  is  a made- 
up  Christian  minister — a manufactured  preacher — • 
a man  whose  individuality  has  failed  to  find  its 
appropriate  nutriment  and  its  appropriate  field  of 
demonstration  in  his  office — a man  who  is  useless 
where  he  is,  and  helpless  elsewhere. 

Of  the  over-crowded  professions  of  law  and  medi- 
cine, I speak  with  less  hesitation,  because  I have 
to  deal  with  less  delicate  motives  of  life.  Men  go 


SELF-HELP. 


29 


into  these  professions  to  get  a living,  and  get  a 
position.  Talk  to  a poor  boy  about  becoming 
what  people  call  “a  self-made  man,”  and  he  in- 
variably thinks  of  becoming  a la^vyer  or  a ph^^si- 
cian.  Go  into  any  preparatory  school : you  will 
find  that  nearly  every  boy  is  aiming  at  one  of  these 
l^rofessions.  Now  if  you  will  reflect  for  a moment, 
you  will  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  number 
of  really  good  lawyers  and  good  physicians  is  com- 
paratively small ; and  when  you  have  reached  this 
conclusion,  you  will  be  able  to  &ee  how  many  of 
them  have  mistaken  their  vocation. 

In  the  popular  idea,  the  medical  profession  is 
the  least  showy  and  attractive  of  the  three  which 
we  caU  learned ; but  think  how  rare  and  peculiar 
the  individuality  must  be  that  is  perfectly,  or  even 
measurably,  adapted  to  it.  Think  of  the  delicate 
insight  that  is  necessary  to  judge  of  temperaments; 
to  detect  the  true  relations  of  symptoms  to  diseases 
in  different  constitutions;  to  decide  when  remedies 
will  assist  nature,  and  when  they  wiU  not;  to  draw 
the  line  be  Ween  diseases  and  disorders;  and  to 
discriminate  between  bodily  and  mental  derange- 
ments!— Think  of  the  tender  sympathy  that  is 
necessary  to  him  who  stands  beside  woman  in  her 
hour  of  trial,  and  bends  over  the  cradles  of  suffer- 
ing children,  and  moves  from  house  to  house,  to 
help  i)Oor  humanity  in  its  extremity!  Think  of 
the  strong,  serene  self-iooise  that  he  must  sustain 
notwithstanding  this  sympathy — the  firm  equanim- 
ity and  cheerful  assurance  which  shall  enable  him 


30 


SELF-HELP. 


to  cany  confidence  and  hope  to  every  j)illov/,  and 
pass  through  the  most  terrific  trials  of  heart  and 
nerve  and  sldll  in  great  emergencies  1 Think  of 
the  pure  heart,  the  unswerving  honor,  the  Chris- 
tian integrity,  that  should  be  his  around  whom  the 
faith  and  the  affections  of  five  hundred  families 
cluster  ! — who  enters  into  their  life,  shares  their 
secrets,  and  has  their  dearest  earthly  interests  in 
keeping  ! Think  of  all  this  and  of  much  more 
that  might  be  named;  and  then  think  of  the  multi- 
tudes of  men  spawned  upon  the  country  every  year 
by  our  medical  institutions  ; many  of  them  Bob 
Sawyers  and  Ben  Allens — dissolute  and  unprinci- 
pled ; many  of  them  rough  and  obtuse  ; some  of 
them  who  have  studied  medicine  simply  because 
they  were  not  adapted  to  law  or  theology — ^remind- 
ing one  of  the  dog  that  was  supposed  to  be  good 
for  rabbits  because  he  was  good  for  nothing  else  ; 
think  of  all  this,  I say,  and  then  marvel  not  that  a 
distinguished  professor — distinguished  alike  at  the 
dissecting  and  the  breakfast  table — has  said  that  if 
aU  the  drugs  in  the  world  were  emptied  into  the 
sea,  it  would  be  infinitely  better  for  mankind  and 
infinitely  worse  for  the  fishes  ! 

Notwithstanding  this,  the  profession  of  medicine 
IS  one  which  I hold  in  profound  and  tender  respect. 
My  physician  shall  walk  hand  in  hand  with  my 
pastor  in  my  esteem,  confidence,  and  affection;  he 
shall  be  welcome  to  my  table,  my  hearth-stone, 
and  my  heart;  but  I utter  no  more  than  a self-evi- 
dent truth,  when  I say  that,  because  a man  passes 


SELF-HELP, 


31 


an  examination  before  a corps  of  professors,  lie  is 
not  necessarily  qualified  for  a physician,  and  that 
there  are  numbers  of  the  profession  who  sit  in  their 
offices,  -with  their  diplomas  signed  and  sealed — aye, 
and  framed  and  glazed  before  them — impatiently 
waiting  for  patients,  who  vulgarly  look  upon  their 
profession  as  a trade,  and  in  Avhose  medical  care  it 
would  not  be  safe  to  risk  a sick  horse  worth  the 
sum  of  twenty-five  dollars. 

Those  who  know  more  about  the  law  than  I do 
•• -worthy  representatives  of  the  legal  profession — • 
will  tell  you  that  it  requires  a rare  organization  to 
comprehend  its  philosophy,  to  master  its  principles 
and  the  detail  of  its  facts  and  forms,  and  to  treat 
each  new"  question  as  it  arises  by  successful  practice. 
But  common  observation  is  sufficiently  suggestive 
upon  this  matter.  If  you  mil  classify  the  la^vyers 
of  your  acquaintance  under  these  four  heads,  as  I 
name  them — lawyers  of  eminence  (count  them), 
lawyers  of  respectabihty  (count  them),  lawyers  of 
mediocrity  (the  task  grows  difficult),  and  lawyers 
of  absolute  inferiority  (you  can’t  count  them),  you 
will  be  able  to  judge  how  many  of  them  have  mis- 
taken their  x>rofession.  A man  has  no  right  to  be 
inferior  in  his  profession,  or,  rather,  he  has  no 
right  to  be  in  a profession  in  wdiich  he  is  inferior. 
Every  man  who  can  be  a first-rate  something — as 
every  man  can  be  v/ho  is  a man  at  aU — lias  no  right 
to  be  a fifth-rate  something;  for  a fifth-rate  some- 
thing is  no  better  than  a first-rate  nothing. 

I have  sometimes  fancied  that  the  reason  why  so 


32 


SELF-HELP, 


few  are  adapted  to  the  three  varieties  of  profes- 
sional life  which  we  are  considering,  is,  that  there 
was  no  original  provision  made  for  these  classes  of 
men.  When  Eve,  our  dear,  over-tempted  grand- 
mother, did  that  which  ‘‘brought  death  into  the 
world  and  all  our  woe,”  she  did  that  which  brought 
physicians  into  the  world  and  aU  our  lawyers  and 
ministers.  If  our  race  had  not  fallen,  it  would  not 
have  needed  ministers,  certainly;  and  a race  that 
would  do  without  ministers,  would  offer  a very  un- 
promising field  for  the  professions  of  law  and  medi- 
cine. I cannot  help  thinking  that  when  the  golden 
thousand  years,  which  have  been  promised  us,  shall 
come,  professional  life  will  be  very  much  less  desir- 
able than  it  is  now.  Every  man  wiU  be  as  good  as 
a minister,  and  every  lawyer  will  be — a man;  and 
the  favorite  professional  joke  about  the  existence 
of  an  “ alarming  state  of  health  ” wiU  become  as 
serious  as  it  is  stale. 

But,  at  this  day,  it  is  in  politics,  quite  as  much 
as  in  the  professions,  that  we  see  the  effect  of  those 
unwise  counsels,  given  to  the  young,  which  have 
been  noticed  in  this  discussion.  A poor  boy  rises 
to  become  a governor,  as  many  a poor  boy  has 
worthily  risen — as  many  a poor  boy,  I trust,  may 
worthily  rise;  or  he  has  become  a member  of  Con- 
gress, or  achieved  some  higher  or  humbler  position 
in  political  Hfe.  To  the  young  mind,  these  titles 
and  these  positions  are  so  re]presented  as  to  appear 
to  be  the  prizes  for  which  their  possessors  have 
striven — as  a fitting  and  natural  object  and  reward 


SELF-HELP, 


33 


of  tlieir  labors.  The  young  have  not  been  taught 
by  their  seK-appointed  counsellors  that  manhood 
is  the  highest  human  estate;  that  office  can  confer 
honor  upon  no  man  who  is  worthy  of  it,  and  that 
it  will  disgrace  every  man  who  is  not.  They  have 
not  been  taught  that  to  desire  office,  and  to  labor 
for  it,  for  the  sake  of  its  honors  and  distinctions, 
is  the  meanest  of  all  ambitions,  and  the  most  de- 
gTading  of  all  pursuits.  They  have  not  been 
taught  to  distinguish  between  a self-made  man  and 
a seK-made  governor,  and  brought  to  understand 
that  a self-made  man  is  greater  than  a governor, 
and  that  a self-made  governor  is  less  than  a man. 
Vital  distinctions  like  these  have  been  ignored; 
and  the  consequence  is,  that  boys  without  beards 
may  be  counted  by  thousands  in  this  coimtry  who 
have  akeady  begun  their  dreams  of  political  dis- 
tinction— who  look  upon  political  distinction  as  a 
legitimate  aim  of  hfe,  and  who  are,  of  course, 
growing  up  into  demagogues. 

Among  ail  the  dangers  which  threaten  this  coun- 
try, I know  of  none  so  great  as  that  which  arises 
from  the  greed  of  small  men  for  office,  and  the 
ease  with  which  they  obtain  it.  When  the  good 
and  the  worthy  men  of  a nation  like  ours — men 
who  do  not  need  office,  but  men  whom  office  sadly 
needs — ^become  disgusted  with  politics,  because  of 
the  inferior  society  and  undignified  contests  into 
which  it  introduces  them,  the  country  may  well 
tremble  with  apprehension.  When  the  stable  gives 
law  to  the  hbrary,  and  the  boy  who  does  chores 


34 


SELF-HELP. 


for  his  boa,^‘ . puts  his  feet  upon  the  parlor-table, 
and  madam  stays  at  home  to  take  care  of  the  baby 
while  Betty  makes  her  calls  and  goes  shopping,  it 
is  about  time  to  begin  to  tiiink  of  breaking  up 
housekeeping.  If  the  effect  of  small  men  in  office 
be  degrading  to  office  and  disastrous  to  the  coun- 
try, the  effect  of  office  upon  small  men  is  quite  as 
disastrous.  There  is  never  danger  that  office  will 
spoil  a man  who  is  fit  for  office.  No  man  who  has 
been  spoiled  by  an  office — either  by  holding  it  or 
by  losing  it — was  ever  fit  for  it.  A true  man  is 
just  as  much  a man  when  his  coat  is  off  as  when  it 
is  on.  Take  the  coat  from  a scarecrow— which  is 
simply  a bundle  of  old  clothes  in  office — and  you 
spoil  it.  In  all  cases  where  office  injures  a man,  it 
is  too  large  for  him,  and  he  has  no  business  with 
it. 

Let  a man  hold  an  office  for  any  length  of  time, 
to  which  tlie  individuahty  of  his  nature  and  char- 
acter bears  no  legitimate  relations,  and  he  wffil  be 
spoiled  for  the  place  in  which  he  belongs. 

The  country  is  full  of  these  men,  or  wrecks  of 
men — disappointed,  soured,  ruined — out  of  office, 
out  of  money,  out  of  credit,  out  of  courage,  out  at 
elbows,  out  in  the  cold,  and  usually,  I regret  to 
say,  exceedingly  dry. . Ah!  if  every  man  who  holds, 
or  has  held,  office  in  the  land,  were  in  the  place 
where  he  belongs,  what  a supply  of  farm-laborers 
would  be  given  to  the  great  producing  interest  of 
this  country!  What  a convulsion  would  run 
tlirough  the  shoe-trade!  What  a relief  would  l3e 


SELF-HELP. 


35 


felt  by  oiir  mercantile  marine!  Nay,  what  an  im- 
petus would  be  given  to  stone-dressing  in  some  of 
our  pubKc  institutions! 

In  view  of  the  sad  effects  of  the  indiscriminato 
nish  into  professional  and  political  x>ui-suits,  we 
may  well  deplore  those  counsels  that  a<re  stimulat- 
ing the  ambition  of  the  young  everj^vhere,  and 
urging  them  into  a hfe  which,  to  half  of  them  at 
least,  must  necessarily  be  unsuccessful  and  unhap- 
py. God  has  made  all  men  different  one  from  an- 
other. Nature  broke  her  die  while  moulding  you 
and  me  as  truly  as  she  did  while  moulding  Sheri- 
dan. The  faculties  of  our  souls  differ  as  ^videly  as 
the  features  of  our  faces  and  the  forms  of  our 
frames.  Thus,  aU  true  self -making  must  be  carried 
on  with  relation  to  this  characteristic  self -hood. 

We  see  some  men  rising  into  a splendid  man- 
hood without  the  aid  of  teachers — carrying  grandly 
up  from  their  individual  nature  a corresponding 
indi\ddual  chaiucter,  and  finding  their  place  and 
their  work  by  an  unsophisticated  instinct.  We  see 
others,  with  the  aids  of  schools  and  teachers,  do- 
ing the  same  thing,  perhaps  even  more  gradually; 
but  we  see  men  who  went  off  with  these  latter, 
uj)on  the  same  early  educational  cruise,  coming 
back  razeed — their  characteristic  upper-deck  gone, 
and  that  which  was  their  peculiar  glory  all  cut 
av/ay.  One  is  led  by  his  individuality  u]p  into  a 
characteristic  development  and  into  his  jolace;  the 
other  permits  his  individuality  to  be  blotted  out, 
and  takes,  instead,  the  mixed,  incongruous,  and 


3G 


SELF-HELP, 


undigested  and  indigestible  individualities  of  his 
preceptors. 

Lest  I be  thought  to  undervalue  what  is  popu- 
larly denominated  education,  I devote  a few  words 
specially  to  the  subject.  All  systems  of  school  and 
college  education  have  the  necessary  imperfection 
of  regarding  and  treating  men  in  masses.  Classes 
are  formed,  not  upon  a natural  but  upon  an  arbi- 
trary basis.  The  young  men  who  are  to  be 
preachers  and  physicians,  and  lawyers  and  mer- 
chants, and  editors  and  farmers,  and  manufacturers 
and  mechanics,  are  all  put  through  the  same  text 
books,  the  same  exercises,  - the  same  discipline. 
There  is  no  plan  of  education,  except  the  individu- 
al, which  can  obviate  this  disadvantage — for  it  ob- 
viously is  a great  disadvantage.  Now  the  man 
who  educates,  or  makes,  himself,  by  drawing  to 
himself  that  which  his  individuality  craves  and 
needs,  and  by  putting  himself  to  the  work  to  which 
his  individuahty  is  adapted,  has  an  advantage,  at 
this  single  point,  over  him  who  goes  through 
school  and  college,  and  yields  himself  wholly  to 
their  undiscriminating  discipline.  There  are  dis- 
advantagas,  however,  on  both  sides.  The  habit  of 
study — of  mental  labor — and  the  general  knowledge 
acquired  in  a systematic  education,  give  the  regular 
student  great  advantage  over  the  irregular. 

Every  student  can  make  himself  just  as  well  in 
college  as  he  can  out,  and  he  ought  to  be  permit- 
ted— nay,  made — to  do  it  a great  deal  better.  I 
pity  the  poor  fellows  who  have  to  do  their  work 


SELF-HELP. 


‘37 


alone;  and  I pity  quite  as  much  those  who  permit 
themselves  to  be  spoiled.  As  I have  said  before, 
scholarship  is  the  measure  of  no  man’s  power, 
though  the  opposite  opinion  seems  to  prevail 
among  the  teachers  of  schools  and  the  faculties  of 
colleges.  Two  men  may  be  exactly  equal  in  schol- 
arship, one  of  whom  will  have  no  more  power  in 
the  world  than  a baby,  while  the  other  will  be  a 
giant,  shaking  thrones,  and  moulding  the  hves 
and  destinies  of  nations.  The  difference  between 
these  two  men  will  be  simply  this:  one  will  have 
sacrificed  his  individuality  or  self -hood  to  his  schol- 
arship; the  other  wiU  have  appropriated  his  schol- 
arsliip  as  food  for  his  individuality.  Nearly  aU 
students,  however,  make  themselves  after  they 
leave  coUege.  Ten  years  after  a man  takes  his 
bachelor’s  degree,  he  looks  back  upon  what  he 
learned  in  coUege,  and  the  training  he  received 
there,  as  a very  small  part,  and  usually  the  least 
practical  part,  of  his  education.  The  moment  he 
is  beyond  college-walls,  he  drops  such  books  as  do 
not  feed  him,  and  seizes  upon  those  that  do;  and, 
if  he  be  not  injured,  he  wiU  immediately  bring 
himself  into  his  natural  relation  to  the  world’s 
thinking,  society,  and  affairs. 

It  matters  httle  by  what  mode  a man  develops 
his  power,  or  by  what  path  he  finds  his  place  in 
the  v/orld,  provided  he  successfully  does  both. 
When  John  0.  Heenan  was  preparing  for  his  fight 
with  Tom  Sayers,  he  subjected  himself  to  the  most 
rigorous  discipline  required  by  the  professors  of 


SELF-HELP, 


fclie  ring,  while  liis  antagonist  took  liis  own  way  in 
the  matter,  and  did  as  he  liked.  V/hen  they  came 
to  their  struggle,  it  was  a question  of  pluck  and 
muscle;  and,  the  pluck  being  equal,  the  larger 
muscle  won,  simjoly  because  it  was  larger,  and  not 
because  it  was  better.  So,  in  the  coiiliicts  of  life, 
it  is  a question  of  brains  and  power.  It  is  not  a 
question  how  much  a man  knows,  but  what  use  he 
can  make  of  what  he  knows;  not  a question  of 
what  he  has  acquired,  and  how  he  has  been  trained, 
but  of  what  he  is,  and  what  he  can  do. 

In  truth,  it  is  in  work  that  a man  develops  and 
makes  himself,  more  than  in  any  prescribed  or  in- 
dividually chosen  mode  of  training.  A man  can 
only  become  a good  accountant — can  only  develop 
a good  accountant’s  powers  and  aptitudes — by  the 
duties  of  the  counting  room.  If  I wished  to  make 
a good  wood-chopper  of  a man  whom  I believed  to 
be  good  for  nothing  else,  I would  not  send  him  to 
a gymnasium  as  a preliminary  process.  I v/ould 
put  an  axe  into  his  hand,  direct  him  to  the  woods, 
and  there  let  him  work  it  out.  Every  man’s 
powers  have  relation  to  some  kind  of  work;  and 
whenever  he  finds  that  kind  of  work  which  he  can 
do  best — that  to  which  his  X30wers  are  best  adapt- 
ed— he  finds  that  which  will  give  him  the 
best  development,  and  that  by  which  he  can  best 
build  up,  or  make  his  manhood. 

But  there  is  a higher  point  from  which  this  sub- 
ject may  be  viewed;  and,  in  the  moral  as  well  as  in 
the  natural  world,  the  higher  the  point  of  observa- 


SELF-HELP. 


39 


tlie  more  extended  and  comprehensive  the  sur- 
vey. Christianity,  for  illustration,  regards  man 
fi*om  a higher  point  than  any  system  of  philosophy; 
yet  few  may  be  philosophers,  while  all  may  be  Chris- 
tians; and  it  is  better  to  be  a Christian  than  to  be 
a philosopher.  So  all  cannot  be  preachers  and 
doctors  and  la^vyers,  and  authors  and  statesmen 
and  orators;  yet  all  can  be  men:  and  it  is  better  to 
be  a man  (begging  pardon  of  the  women)  than  to 
be  anything  else,  for  anything  else  ma,y  be  some- 
thing less.  It  is  better  to  be  a self-made  man — • 
filled  up  according  to  God’s  original  pattern — than 
to  be  half  a man,  made  after  some  other  man’s  pat- 
tern. Manhood  overtops  all  titles. 

“ The  rank  is  but  the  guinea’s  stamp  ; 

A man’s  a man  for  a’  that.” 

Labor,  calling,  profession,  scholarship,  and  arti- 
ficial and  arbitrary  distinctions  of  all  sorts,  are  in- 
cidents and  accidents  of  life,  and  pass  away.  It  is 
only  manhood  that  remains,  and  it  is  only  by  man- 
hood that  man  is  to  be  measured.  When  this 
proposition  shall  be  comprehended  and  accepted, 
it  will  become  easy  to  see  that  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  menial  work  in  this  world.  No  work  that 
God  sets  a man  to  do — no  work  to  v/hich  God  has 
specially  adapted  a man’s  powers — can  properly  be 
called  either  menial  or  mean.  The  man  who  blacks 
your  boots  and  blacks  them  well,  and  who  engages 
in  that  variety  of  labor  because  he  can  do  it  bettor 
than  he  can  do  anything  else,  may  have,  if  he 
choose,  just  as  sound  and  true  a manhood  as  you 


SELF-HELP. 


40 

Lave,  not  only  after  he  gets  through  the  work  of 
his  life,  but  now,  with  your  boots  in'  one  hand  and 
your  shilling  in  the  other.  There  is  very  much 
dirtier  work  done  in  politics,  and  sometimes  in  the 
professions,  than  that  of  blacking  boots;  work,  too, 
which  destroys  manhood,  or  renders  its  acquisition 
impossible. 

If  I have  attained  the  object  of  this  lectiu’e,  I 
.have  presented  to  you,  and  impressed  upon  you, 
certain  important  and  intimately  related  truths, 
which  I w'iil  briefly  recount: 

First.  That  th'e  faculty  of  self-helx)  is  that  which 
distinguishes  man  from  animals;  that  it  is  in  the 
Godlike  element,  or  holds  within  itself  the  Godlike 
element,  of  his  constitution. 

Second.  That  God  gives  every  man  individuahty 
of  constitution,  and  the  faculty  to  achieve  individu- 
ality of  character,  through  an  inteUigent  selection 
of  food  for  the  nourishment,  and  labor  for  the 
discipline  and  development,  of  his  powers. 

Third.  That  those  counsels  which  convey  to 
young  Iversons,  indiscriminately,  the  idea  that  they 
can  make  anything  of  themselves  that  they  choose 
to  make,  are  i3ernicious,  from  the  fact  that  many  wiU 
choose  to  make  of  themselves  that  for  which  Nature 
never  designed  them,  and  will  thus  s]3oil  them- 
selves for  the  work  to  which  their  individuahties 
are  adapted. 

Fourth.  That  a man  can  never  be  well-made  who 
is  not,  in  reality,  self-made;  whose  native  individu- 


SELF-HELP, 


41 


ality  is  not  tlie  initial  and  the  dominant  fact  in  his 
development. 

Fifth,  That  it  is  a mistake  to  suppose  that  a man, 
in  order  to  be  self-made,  must  necessarily  seek  the 
pecuhar  development  that  will  prepare  him  for 
professional  or  political  hfe. 

Sixth,  That  no  man  has  a right  to  be  engaged  in 
a calling  or  profession  in  which  he  occupies  an  infe- 
rior position,  while  there  exists  a calling  or  profes- 
sion in  which  he  may  occupy  a superior  position; 
and  that  no  man  is  respectable  when  out  of  his 
place,  however  respectable  the  place  he  occupies 
may  be. 

Seventh.  That  a man  without  a title  is  greater 
than  a title  without  a man;  and  that  a self-made  man 
may  occupy,  in  honor  and  the  noblest  respecta- 
bility, the  humblest  place  in  the  world,  if  its  duties 
are  only  those  for  which  God  designed  his  powers. 

There  are  other  truths  that  I might  add  to  this 
rehearsal,  but  they  would  be  hardly  more  than 
modifications  of  these,  or  correlatives  of  these.  I 
should  be  sorry,  if,  by  presenting  and  insisting  on 
them,  I had  dampened  in  a single  bosom  a worthy 
ambition.  I should  regret  the  awakening  in  my 
mind  of  questions  that  would  x>rove  fatal  to  a legiti- 
mate career.  But  facts  are  facts.  I am  not  re- 
sponsible for  them;  and  I am  only  anxious  that  no 
man,  through  influence  of  mine,  use  them  to  his 
harm. 

I account  the  loss  of  a man’s  life  and  individu- 
ality, through  the  non-adaptation  or  the  mal-adap* 


42 


SELF-HELP. 


fcation  of  lus  powers  to  his  pursuits,  the  gi-eatest 
calamity,  next  to  the  loss  of  personal  virtue,  that 
he  can  suller  in  this  world.  I beheve  that  a full 
moiety  of  the  trials  and  disappointments  that  dark- 
en a world  which,  I am  sure,  was  intended  to  be 
measurably  bright  and  happy,  are  traceable  to  this 
prohfic  source.  Men  are  not  in  their  places.  Wo- 
men are  not  in  their  places.  John  is  doing  badly 
the  work  that  WiUiam  would  do  well,  and  William 
is  doing  badly  the  work  that  John  would  do  well; 
and  both  are  disapjpointed,  and  unhappy,  and  seK- 
unmado.  It  is  quite  possible  that  John  is  doing 
Mary’s  work  and  Mary  is  doing  John’s  work. 

Of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen. 

The  saddest  are  these:  ‘ it  might  have  been.’  ’* 

Now  I do  not  suppose  we  shall  ever  get  the  world 
all  right  on  this  matter.  I do  not  suppose  that  all 
men  will  find  the  places  for  which  they  were  de- 
signed, or  that,  in  many  instances,  Maud  will 
marry  the  Judge:  but  an  improvement  can  be 
made;  and  if  an  improvement  ever  shall  be  made, 
it  will  be  through  the  inculcation  of  sounder  views 
among  the  young. 

I am  sick  of  the  stupid  cant  by  which  stupid 
men  strive  to  inflame  the  ambition  of  the  youth 
that  are  placed  under  then’  direction.  Far  too 
many  of  our  schools  are  httle  better  than  places  for 
the  development  of  mental  and  moral  fever.  Both 
boys  and  girls  are  stimulated,  by  the  infernal 
machinery  of  prizes,  and  honoraiy  appointments, 


SELF-IIELF, 


43 


and  fear  of  disgi-ace,  and  sncli  counsels  as  tlioso 
ui-jon  wliicli  I liave  already  remarked,  to  the  most 
ambitious  aspirations,  the  most  extzjavagaiit  expec- 
tations, and  the  most  extraordinary  exertions.  I 
verily  beheve  that  there  are  but  few  boys  in  this 
country  who  have  not  had  the  idea  drilled  into 
them,  by  teachers  or  by  books,  that  they  can  be 
anythmg  in  this  Vv^orld  that  they  choose  to  be,  or 
really  try  to  become. 

The  question  which  a youth  is  called  upon  to  de- 
cide for  himself,  or  v>^hich  his  parents  and  friends 
are  called  upon  to  decide  for  him,  or  assist  liim  in 
deciding,  is  not  what,  with  reference  to  the  arbi- 
trary standard  of  iDersonal  and  social  values  accred- 
ited by  the  world,  he  chooses  to  be,  but  what  God 
has  chosen  to  make  him.  Woe  to  that  youth  who 
finds  his  choice  at  war  with  that  of  his  Maker — 
who  sets  his  powers  to  a life-task  which  they  were 
never  intended  to  perform! 

11  there  be  one  man  before  me  who  honestly  and 
contentedly  beheves  that,  on  the  whole,  he  is  do- 
ing that  work  to  which  his  powers  are  best  adapted, 
I wish  to  congratulate  him.  My  friend,  I care  not 
whether  your  hand  be  hard  or  soft;  I care  not 
whether  you  are  from  the  office  or  the  sho});  I care 
not  whether  you  preach  the  everlasting  gospel  from 
the  pulpit,  or  swing  the  hammer  over  the  black- 
smith’s anvil;  I care  not  whether  you  have  seen 
the  inside  of  a college  or  the  outside — whether 
your  work  be  that  of  the  head  or  that  of  the  hand 
— whether  the  world  account  you  noble  or  ignoble : 


44 


SELF-HELP. 


if  you  have  found  your  place,  you  are  a happy  man. 
Let  no  ambition  ever  tempt  you  away  from  it,  by 
so  much  as  a questioning  thought.  I say,  if  you 
have  found  your  place — ^no  matter  what  or  where 
it  is — ^you  are  a happy  man.  I give  you  joy  of 
your  good  fortune;  for  if  you  do  the  work  of  that 
place  well,  and  draw  from  it  ah.  that  it  can  give  you 
of  nutriment  and  discipline  and  development,  you 
are,  or  you  will  become,  a man  filled  up — ^made 
after  God’s  pattern — the  noblest  product  of  the 
world, — a seK  made  man. 


FA  8 ETON. 


The  proverb  that  it  is  as  well  to  be  out  of  the 
world  as  out  of  the  fashion,  is  an  old  one  and 
a mean  one;  and  it  has  so  damaged  the  world  that 
the  alternative  is  come  to  be  not  so  bad  as  it  was. 
Indeed,  it  were  better  that  a man  should  be  out  of 
the  world  than  in  some  fasliions.  I do  not  sxoeak 
with  particular  reference  to  dress,  or  manners,  or 
social  usage.  It  does  not  matter  what  a fool  wears 
upon  his  back,  or  a flht  upon  her  head;  nor  does 
it  matter  how  closely  or  how  universally  sensible 
and  sober  people  imitate  them,  provided  they  are 
comfortable  in  their  habit,  and  tradesmen  drive  a 
thrifty  business.  It  is,  of  course,  very  sad  to  think 
how  often  good  taste  is  perverted  or  ignored  in  the 
fabiic  and  form  of  personal  drapery,  and  how  fre- 
quently common  sense  and  common  honesty  ai-e 
offended  by  the  social  customs  which  fashion  or- 
dains; but  as  uniformity  to  a considerable  extent 
is  desirable,  let  fashion  be  the  law.  It  is  well 


46 


FASIIIOK 


enough  that  a silly  queen  reign  over  an  unimport- 
ant realm.  So  long  as  fashion  is  employed  in  the 
shops  of  the  tailor  and  the  milliner,  she  is  engaged 
in  entirely  innocent  and  legitimate  business.  I am 
aware  that  her  freaks  in  these  departments  often 
make  us  all  ridiculous;  but  because  they  make  us 
all  ridiculous,  there  are  none  left  to  laugh  at  us — 
so  we  don’t  care.  If  fashion  had  only  to  do  with 
forms  and  manners  and  methods  wnich  touch  the 
person  and  the  outer  life,  it  would  not  be  import- 
ant as  a subject  of  public  discussion;  but  it  goes 
deeper  than  this,  and  becomes  a j)OYv^er  of  no  mean 
magnitude  in  the  world’s  hfe — even  disputing 
supremacy  with  Christianity  in  our  civihzation. 

It  will  be  well  for  us,  at  starting,  to  obtain  a suf- 
ficient idea  of  what  fashion  essentially  is,  and  is 
not,  even  if  we  do  not  stop  to  define  it  fuUy. 
Fashion  is  not  pubhc  opinion,  or  the  result  or  em- 
bodiment of  public  opinion.  It  may  be  that  pubhc 
opinion  will  condemn  the  slij^e  of  a bonnet,  as  it 
may  venture  to  do  always,  vvdth  the  certainty  of 
being  right  nine  times  in  ten;  but  fashion  vnR 
place  it  upon  the  head  of  every  woman  in  America, 
and,  were  it  literally  a crown  of  thorns,  she  would 
smile  contentedly  beneath  the  imxDosition.  Pubhc 
opinion  may  bo  opposed  to  the  mne-cup  on  the 
dinner-table,  on  festive  occasions;  but  fashion 
places  and  keeps  it  there.  Nay,  fashion  and  pubhc 
opinion,  in  all  matters  of  form,  are  very  often  at 
variance;  yet  fashion  is  now,  and  always  has  been, 
stronger  than  pubhc  opinion.  Fashion  is  aristo- 


FASHION. 


47 


cratic — autocratic;  public  opinion  is  democratic. 
Fashion  is  based  upon  tlie  assumed  or  tlie  admitted 
light  of  some  man,  or  of  some  class,  to  rule; 
Xnibh'c  oiiinion  is  the  creature  of  universal  suf- 
frage. i 

I say  that  fashion  is  based  upon  the  assumed  or 
the  admitted  right  of  some  men  to  rule.  There 
seems  to  be  in  the  human  mind  a native  reverence 
for  those  who  are  high  in  position  and  social  priv- 
ilege— a native  ^vilhngness  to  follow  this  class  in  all 
matters  which  do  not  touch  the  soul’s  hfe  too 
deeply.  Nay,  there  is  a natural  deference,  in  the 
majority  of  minds,  to  bold  assumption  of  superior- 
ity, and  bold  assumption  of  the  right  to  rule.  The 
sway  of  that  class  which  is,  or  assumes  to  be,  supe- 
rior, is  fashion.  What  its  members  wear,  the 
world  weai-s.  What  their  habits  are — at  the  table, 
in  the  assembly,  on  the  street — the  world  adopts. 
The  Empress  of  France  has  but  to  change  the  posi- 
tion of  a ribbon  to  set  all  the  ribbons  in  Christen- 
dom to  rusthng.  A single  word  from  her  convul- 
ses the  whalebone  markets  of  the  world,  and  sends 
a thrill  to  the.  most  frigid  zone, — alike  of  world  and 
woman.  The  mustaches  of  the  world  wax  as  the 
Emperor’s  wax,  and  wane  as  the  Emperor’s  are 
waxed.  Coat-collars  rise  and  fall,  hats  expand  and 
contract  their  brims,  waistcoats  change  from  black 
to  white  and  from  white  to  black,  gloves  blush  and 
turn  pale,  in  response  to  the  monthly  reports  from 
the  Tuileries.  Fashion  is  based  on  the  idea  of 
caste;  and  the  sturdiest  democrat  in  pohtics  is  not 


48 


FASHION. 


mifrequently  its  blindest  devotee  in  liis  individual 
and  social  life. 

So,  over  all  the  broad  realm  of  public  opinion 
and  public  conscience,  regardless  of  all  recognized 
rules  of  taste  and  propriety,  trampling  ail  our  de- 
mocratic theory  and  practice  under  feet,  Easliion 
holds  her  undisputed  sway — ^Fashion,  the  self-or- 
dained queen  over  subjects  who  bow  to  her,  not 
only  with  no  question  as  to  her  authority,  but  with 
joyful  and  unmeasured  devotion  of  time  and  treas- 
ure. She  holds  in  her  hands  the  keys  of  social 
destiny.  She  blesses,  and  men  and  women  smile; 
she  bans,  and  they  weep.  The  place  where  she 
stands  becomes  thenceforth  holy  ground.  That 
which  she  embraces  is  sacred;  that  which  she  shuns 
is  profane. 

We  have  fashionable  sins  and  fashionable  follies, 
fashionable  churches  and  fashionable  schools, 
fashionable  pohtics  and  fashionable  medicine,  fash- 
ionable authors  and  fashionable  preachers,  fashion- 
able watering-places,  fashionable  hotels,  fashion- 
able streets  and  fashionable  sides  of  streets.  There 
is  no  department  of  hfe  into  which  fashion  does 
not  thrust  its  hand,  and  there  is  no  society,  unless 
it  be  some  such  conservatory  of  ugliness  as  a 
Shaker  community,  that  does  not  bow  to  it.  Con- 
sequently, or  concomitantly,  we  have  a fashionable 
style  of  manhood  and  womanhood,  a fashion  able 
social  life,  and  a fashionable  hterature;  and  these, 
03  opposed  to  democracy  and  a genuine  Christian 


FASHION. 


49 


civilization,  I proiDose  to  make  the  subject  of  my 
discussion. 

Here  let  us  define  terms  a little  further.  I have 
spoken  of  fashion  as  oj)posed  to  democracy  and 
Christian  ci^olization;  but  by  these  latter  I do  not 
intend  to  indicate  unhke  or  unrelated  things.  The 
popular  definition  of  democracy  is  somethmg  more 
and  something  better  than  ‘‘a  ghttering  generah- 
ty.”  Democracy  is,  in  a most  important  sense, 
practical  Chiistianity,  and  Christianity  is,  indeed, 
the  fife  and  soul  of  a i^ure  democracy.  The  funda- 
mental idea  of  Christian  society  is  human  equality, 
and  the  democratic  root  strikes  into  the  same  soil. 
Christianity  and  democracy  alike  crown  men  with 
equal  rights  and  privileges,  make  them  individually 
responsible,  and  j)ass  through  accidents  of  birth, 
circumstances,  and  position,  to  lay  their  claims  and 
their  awards  upon  every  soul.  They  are  so  closely 
alhed,  that  a Christian  government  must  necessarily 
have  the  democratic  element  predominant;  and  a 
democratic  government  only  needs  to  lose  its  Chris- 
tianity as  a controlling  power  to  become  a despot- 
ism. Wherever,  and  under  whatever  form,  we 
find  a government  that  is  essentially  Christian,  we 
shall  find  a government  that  is  essentially  demo- 
cratic. I beg  you  to  regard  me,  therefore,  as 
speaking  always  and  alike  in  behalf  of  Cliristian 
civihzation  and  American  democracy.  There  is 
not  an  infiuence  of  fashion  which  does  not  tell 
against  both,  and  both  are  associated  in  every  ad- 
vantage gained  by  either. 


50 


FASHIOK 


Wliat  is  a fashionable  style  of  manhood  and  wo- 
manhood? It  is  not  always  the  same  in  all  places, 
but  this  is  true  of  it  everywhere,  I think:  that 
it  never  demands  Christianity,  or  a regard  for 
popular  rights,  as  an  essential  element.  I have 
never  known  a man  to  be  denied  the  possession  of 
a fashionable  style  of  manhood  on  the  ground  that 
he  was  an  infidel,  or  an  atheist,  or  a despot,  or  an 
oppressor  of  the  poor.  I may  say,  indeed,  that  I 
have  never  known  a thorough  Christian  or  an  hon- 
est democrat  to  be  the  possessor  of  a fashionable 
style  of  manhood.  A lack  of  earnestness  in  any 
great  or  useful  pursuit,  a bhnd  worship  of  rank 
and  of  those  who  hold  it,  a childish  sensitiveness 
to  the  charms  of  personal  adornment,  a disposition 
to  magnify  above  things  essential  all  matters  of 
form  and  ceremony,  a hatred  of  labor  and  con- 
tempt for  the  laborer,  and  a selfish  jealousy  that 
walks  hand  in  hand  with  an  undisguised  personal 
vanity — ^these  are  the  leading  characteristics  of 
what  may  be  denominated  a fashionable  style  of 
manhood  and  womanhood, — the  basis  of  an  outside 
life,  ordered  in  obedience  to  an  outside,  law.  You 
will  perceive  that  my  definition  w^ill  estabhsh  a 
great  difference  between  the  fashionable  man  and 
the  pohte  or  gentle  man.  The  fashionable  man 
is  often  popularly  mistaken  for  the  polite  man, 
and,  I may  say,  is  gTeatly  interested  in  being  mis- 
taken for  him.  Indeed,  he  often  mistakes  liimseK 
for  him.  The  difference  between  a gentleman  and 
a man  of  fashion  is  just  as  distinct  as  that  between 


FASHION. 


51 


a man  of  fasliion  and  an  unpretending  boor.  The 
fashionable  man  may  be,  and  often  is,  a bmte  in 
his  instincts  and  in  his  secret  life;  he  may  be  a 
cringing  puppy  among  his  superiors;  he  may  be 
the  meanest  toady  of  power  and  place;  he  may  be 
intolerably  insolent  among  those  whom  he  deems 
his  inferiors;  but  certainly  these  things  are  not 
possible  "with  a gentleman. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  genuine  ladies  and 
gentlemen  frequently  associate  with  men  and  wo- 
men who  have  no  fm’ther  claim  to  consideration 
than  that  they  are  fashionable,  or  that  ladies  and 
gentlemen  give  more  or  less  countenance  and  color- 
ing to  fashionable  Hfe;  but  there  is  no  man  in  all 
the  world  more  conscious  than  the  purely  fashion- 
able man  that  there  is  a style  of  manhood  above 
his,  and  a style  of  social  hfe  in  which  he  has  no 
home  save  as  a favored  or  a fawning  guest.  He  is 
only  an  imitation  of  something  which  he  envies. 
The  gentleman  is  sohd  mahogany;  the  fashionable 
man  is  only  veneer. 

The  fashionable  man,  either  rich  and  powerful 
or  allied  with  those  who  are,  makes  social  pre-em- 
inence the  end  of  his  life.  He  cheads  poverty,  but 
bows  low  to  vulgar  and  insolent  wealth.  All  his 
affinities  run  in  sordid  channels.  He  meanly  wor- 
ships the  rich  and  the  powerful,  the  titled  and  the 
gently-bred,  and  regards  all  contact  with  other 
classes  as  contamination.  His  morahties  are  the 
fashionable  morahties,  whatever  those  may  haj)pen 
to  be.  Ha  corrupt  and  Hcentious  court  be  the 


62 


FASHION. 


ruling  influence,  corruption  and  licentiousness  be- 
come fashionable  with  him.  If  the  leading  minds 
are  mockers  at  the  Christian  religi3n,  he  treats  it 
with  irreverence  and  contempt.  He  calls  things 
good  and  bad  by  fashionable  names.  An  earnest 
Christian  with  him  is  a bigot;  preaching  is  cant, 
Xjrayer  is  a sort  of  Puritan  snuffle;  a hfe  of  self-sac- 
rifice to  duty  is  fanaticism;  godliness,  gloom;  con- 
scientious strictness  in  religious  duty  or  observance, 
the  being  ‘‘deeply,  darkly,  beautifully  blue. ” On 
the  other  hand,  a libertine  is  only  a man  of  the 
Vv^orld;  a rich  and  well-dressed  sot  only  hves  too 
fast,  or  has  an  infirmity  which  renders  it  necessary 
that  he  should  be  seen  before  dinner  to  be  appre- 
ciated. Swindling  by  himself  and  friends  is  re- 
garded as  sharp  practice,  and  obtaining  clothes 
without  paying  for  them,  “doing  the  tailor,” — a 
very  sad  joke  to  one  of  the  parties,  but  tradition- 
ally a good  one  with  the  other. 

Now  for  a glance  at  another  picture.  Here  and 
there  in  the  w^oiid — ^more  numerous  in  the  aggre- 
gate than  those  know  who  do  not  love  their  society 
— there  are  men  and  women  whose  Hves  are  or- 
dered from  mthin;  whose  motive  and  regulating 
force  is  love  of  God  and  love  of  men;  who  are  loyal 
to  conscience,  earnest  in  all  benevolent  enterprise, 
self-sacrificing,  most  happy  in  the  communication 
of  happiness,  without  jealousy  and  without  hypoc- 
risy; who  esteem  it  a more  honorable  thing  to  for- 
give an  injury  than  to  resent  one;  who  are  humble 
in  their  estimate  of  themselves,  and  who  in  honor 


FASHION. 


63 


prefer  one  another.  This,  very  briefly,  is  what  I 
understand  to  be  the  Christian  style  of  manhood 
and  womanhood. 

Now  the  difference  between  this  and  the  fashion- 
able style  is  certainly  the  difference  between  an- 
tagonistic oj)posites.  The  man  of  fashion  is  exclu- 
sive, and  has  no  sympathy  with  any  but  his  class  or 
clique.  The  Christian  is  universal  in  his  sympa- 
thies, embracing  in  his  prayer  and  in  his  charitable 
endeavor  every  nation,  class,  and  individual.  One 
seeks  only  to  make  the  world  useful  to  himself; 
the  other,  to  make  himseK  useful  to  the  world. 
One  seeks  for,  or  seizes,  privilege;  the  other  is 
happiest  in  ministry.  One  is  a despot;  the  other 
is  a democrat. 

If  we  approach  our  second  point  in  the  discus- 
sion— fashionable  social  hfe — we  shall  find  that  that 
which  is  true  of  one  is  true  of  many.  Social  hfe  is 
the  interflow  of  the  life  of  individuals:  but  social 
hfe  has  individuality.  It  has  its  creeds,  customs, 
and  conventionahties.  It  has  its  store  and  style  of 
power.  It  has  its  currently  understood,  but  capri- 
ciously fluctuating,  lav>^s.  It  is  a distinct,  charac- 
teristic thing,  to  be  looked  at,  toned  over,  and 
talked  about.  If  I were  called  upon  to  give  an 
opinion  upon  any  form  of  social  hfe,  I should  first 
wish  to  learn  the  object  of  its  worship,  and,  sec- 
ond, the  object  of  its  pursuit.  I know  that  a social 
hfe  which  worships  God,  and  pursues  the  good  of 
men,  is  a Christian  social  hfe;  and  I know  just  as 
v/eh  that  a social  hfe  which  worships  money,  and 


54 


FASHION. 


pursues  social  distinction  as  its  end,  is,  in  spirit 
and  in  fact,  an  aristocracy.  It  may  have  no  titles, 
it  may  have  no  civil  privileges;  but,  wherever  its 
power  can  go, — ^into  all  matters,  social  and  reli- 
gious, political  and  mihtary, — it  will  go  with  the 
characteristic  influence  of  an  aristocracy. 

Such  is  the  fashionable  social  life  of  America. 
If  it  boast  no  hereditary  titles,  it  is  not  because  it 
does  not  desire  and  worship  them.  If  it  have  no 
civil  privileges  and  prerogatives,  it  is  not  because 
it  does  not  feel  itself  entitled  to  them.  It  is,  in  it- 
self, the  result  of  a conspiracy  on  the  part  of  wealth 
and  power  for  achieving  and  holding  social  distinc- 
tion— elevation  above  the  masses  of  men  and  the 
associations  of  labor.  It  separates  itself  from  the 
commonwealth  of  humanity  so  far  as  it  may,  and 
believes  in  its  right  to  rule  and  use  men  for  its  own 
aggrandizement  and  convenience. 

This  fashionable  social  life  has,  as  I have  said,  its 
creeds,  customs,  and  conventionalities.  Thronged 
with  jealousies  within  itself,  it  is  jealous  of  aU  out- 
side encroachment  and  interference.  It  has  its 
own  code  of  morals,  which,  more  or  less  strict  ac- 
cording to  circumstances,  is  never  up  to  the  Chris- 
tian standard.  I do  not  beheve  that  there  is  any 
fashionable  life  in  the  world  that  can  justly  be 
called  Christian.  If  I go  to  the  great  cities,  or 
even  to  the  little  cities,  and  witness  the  idleness, 
the  intrigues,  the  frivolities,  and  the  general  self- 
seeking  which  characterize  the  fashionable  social 
life  that  exists  there;  or,  if  I look  in  upon  the  wan- 


FASHION. 


55 


ton  wastefulness  and  the  worse  than  childish  greed 
for  display  at  a fashionable  summer  resort,  I can 
find  nothing  that  will  remind  me  that  man  has 
either  a nature  or  a destiny  better  than  a beast, — 
nothing  that  indicates  to  me  that  man,  as  man,  has 
common  need  of  ministry  and  common  privilege. 
The  humanity  within  me  is  insulted  by  assumptions 
of  superiority  which  ignore  the  regal  supremacy  of 
manhood. 

The  most  intimate  sympathy  to  be  found  in 
purely  fashionable  society  is  that  which  comes 
tlirough  its  low  tone  of  morality.  Wealth  and 
power  and  place  are  considered  sufficient  in  all 
fashionable  social  life  to  paUiate,  or  atone  for,  al- 
most every  crime  of  which  a man  can  be  guilty. 
Morality  is  a matter  of  secondary  importance;  and 
there  is  nothing  better  understood  than  the  conspi- 
racy among  fashionable  people  to  sustain  each 
other  in  practices  which  are  only  justifiable  by 
their  own  low  standard  of  morals.  None  of  us  will 
be  obliged  to  tax  the  memory  beyond  measure  to 
call  up  the  image  of  a notorious  hbertine,  petted 
by  fashionable  mothers  of  fashionable  daughters, 
because  he  occupies  a high  place  in  fashionable 
society.  None  of  us  -will  be  obliged  to  go  out  of 
his  own  neighborhood  to  meet  with  those  whose 
sole  claim  to  a place  in  fashionable  society  is  based 
upon  the  possession  of  money  won  by  gigantic 
frauds,  or  corrupt  contracts,  or  oppression  of  the 
poor.  I know  of  but  one  garment  which  the  fash- 
ionable social  life  of  this  country  borrows  of  Chris- 


6G 


FASHION, 


tianity.  It  is  that  ample  mantle  of  charity  which 
covers  a multitude  of  sins — ^particularly  fashion- 
able sins. 

Fashionable  society  has  always  been  the  ally  and 
support  of  every  instituted  and  iDrofitable  wrong. 
Let  any  wong  become  the  permanent  source  of 
wealth  and  power  to  any  class  of  men,  and  fashion- 
able society  will  at  once  become  its  defender.  We 
have  in  the  history  of  the  passing  times  a compe- 
tent illustration  of  this  fact.  If  there  be  in  aU  the 
world  an  institution  which  is  both  unnatural  and 
unchristian,  you  will  agree  with  me  that  it  is  hu- 
man slavery;  yet  fashionable  social  life  has  always 
been  in  friendly  alliance  with  it.  The  fashionable 
society  of  the  North  has  meanly  bowed  down  to 
and  envied  that  class  at  the  South  whose  wealth 
and  position  have  been  based  upon  the  possession 
and  the  profits  of  human  slaves;  and  even  at  this 
late  day  you  will  find  the  two  classes  sympathetic. 
With  the  exception  of  a few  wretched  politicians, 
there  have  been  in  the  North  no  sympathizers  with 
the  great  rebellion,  undertaken  on  behalf  of  human 
slavery,  not  found  in  fashionable  society.  There 
has  not  been  a time  since  the  commencement  of 
the  great  rebellion  when  it  needed  more  than  the 
strildng  of  the  fashionable  class  out  of  Baltimore 
to  make  that  city  as  loyal  as  the  city  of  Boston. 
Almost  the  only  element  of  Northern  society  that 
was  at  first  sympathetic  with  treason  was  the  fash- 
ionable. In  the  city  of  Washington — the  capital 
of  this  great  nation — fashionable  society  even  now 


FASmOK 


67 


bemoans  tlie  loss  of  tlie  lordly  swaggerers  from 
whom  for  whole  generations  it  had  received  its  life- 
blood and  law.  By  the  means  and  through  the  in- 
fluence of  these  men  this  society  had  made  all  re- 
form unfashionable,  made  labor  unfashionable, 
made  Northern  men  unfashionable,  made  human 
freedom  unfashionable,  made  Christianity  and  con- 
science unfashionable,  made  democracy  itseK  un- 
fashionable. 

There  sits  in  the  White  House,  to-day,  a most 
unfashionable  man.  His  hands  are  clean  from  all 
suspicion  of  bribes, — ^but  he  is  unfashionable.  No 
President  since  Washington  has  sought  so  little  to 
compass  private  ends  and  promote  personal  ambi- 
tions as  he, — ^but  he  is  unfasliionable.  He  has  but 
a single  aim,  wliich  has  actuated  him  through  all 
the  weary  months  of  his  public  life — the  restora- 
tion of  national  unity, — ^but  he  is  unfashionable. 
With  an  army  numbering  a million  of  nobler  and 
braver  men  than  were  ever  before  marshalled  upon 
the  field — an  army  finer  than  any  king  or  emperor 
ever  saw — and  with  a navy  that  within  a year  of 
the  time  of  its  creation  revolutionized  the  modes  of 
naval  warfare  throughout  the  world — head  of  a 
realm  of  thirty  millions,  and  presiding  calmly, 
conscientiously,  and  wisely  over  the  history  of  the 
most  eventful  period  of  the  national  existence, — he 
remains  a most  unfashionable  man.  Honesty,  in- 
tegrity, patriotism,  unflinching  devotion  to  the 
great  cause  into  v/hich  he  has  cast  his  life,  bold- 
ness to  do  what  he  believes  to  be  right,  charitable 


68 


FASHION, 


moderation  toward  all, — none  of  these  things  have 
made  him  fashionable.  Nay,  occupying  a position 
of  moral  grandeur  which  we  cannot  j)ossibly  appre- 
hend, as  it  will  be  conceived  by  the  future  histo- 
rian, there  are  fashionable  people  about  Mm  who  re- 
gard him  with  ineffable  contempt;  fashionable  peo- 
ple vdio  owe  to  his  moderation  and  large-hearted 
charity  their  immunity  from  iron  gratings  and 
hempen  cravats.  Let  the  nation  thanli  God,  that 
whatever  else  President  Lincoln  has  been,  he  has 
not  been  a fashionable  man. 

Fashionable  society  has  not  only  been  the  de- 
fender of  every  system  of  profitable  wrong,  in  this 
and  other  countries,  but  it  has  been  the  constant 
oiDposer  and  reviler  of  humane  and  Cliristian  re- 
form. The  fasMonable  instinct  naturally  rises 
against  reform — against  any  scheme  which  tends 
to  elevate  the  people,  and  relieve  them  from  the 
rule  of  those  who  give  law  to  fashionable  life.  Re- 
forms are  always  democratic,  and  are  based  uiDon  a 
recognition  of  the  equahty  of  men;  and  fashionable 
society  can  possibly  have  no  sympathy  with  them. 
There  is  hardly  a fact  m all  history  more  patent  than 
this:  that  in  the  undertaking  and  prosecuting  any 
humane  or  Christian  reform,  the  fashionable  class 
are  never  to  be  relied  upon  for  aid,  wMile  their  op- 
position in  one  form  or  another  is  certain.  While 
this  is  true,  it  is  just  as  true  that  the  rule  of  Chris- 
tian society,  its  motive  and  regulating  force,  is 
universal  benevolence,  which  finds  no  plane  of 
action  and  no  rest  save  in  the  sentiment  of  univer- 


FASHI02{. 


50 


5ol  brotlierliood — tlie  basis  of  a perfect  democracy. 
So  distinct  are  tlie  spheres  and  the  atmospheres  of 
these  two  forms  of  social  hfe,  that  the  Christian 
gentleman  finds  nothing  in  fashionable  society  for 
the  satisfaction  of  his  social  nature,  and  the  fash- 
ionable man  finds  nothing  in  genuine  Christian 
social  hfe  which  is  not  to  liim  a burden  and  a bore. 
Sometimes — quite  imiversaUy,  indeed — compromi- 
ses are  effected  between  fashionable  and  Christian 
social  hfe,  for  the  accommodation  of  worldly  jico- 
ple  with  tender  consciences  and  Christian  people 
with  tough  consciences;  but  compromises  of  this 
character  are  always  surrenders  upon  the  wrong 
side.  Christian  society,  by  consenting  to  an  ahi- 
ance  with  it,  consents  to  neutrahzation  by  it.  It 
is  the  old  and  everlasting  impossibility  of  serving 
God  and  Mammon. 

We,  as  Americans,  profess  to  be  a Christian  na- 
tion. We  profess  to  beheve  that  we  live  under  a 
democratic  government,  and  that  we  are  democrats 
ourselves.  We  should  be  startled  to  learn  that  we 
had  reahy  been  governed  for  years  by  an  aristoc- 
racy; but  what  are  the  facts?  How  much,  for  the 
past  fifty  years,  has  Christian  social  hfe  in  Wash- 
ington influenced  the  legislation  of  Congress? 
You  know  that  I ask  a question  to  be  sadly  laughed 
at.  You  know  that  fashionable  society  at  the  na- 
tional capital  has  always  been  able  to  secure  the 
performance  of  its  behests.  In  close  alhance  with 
ever}^  profitable  wrong,  it  has  been  able  to  lord  it 
over  the  Christian  element,  which,  weaker  or 


60 


FASHION, 


stronger,  has  always  been  i^resent.  It  has  branded 
good,  conscientious,  Christian  men  as  fanatics, 
and  they  have  walked  the  streets  of  the  national 
capital  despised,  proscribed,  alone.  It  has  con- 
temptuously barred  its  doors  against  those  whom 
posterity  will  number  among  its  saints  and  its  he- 
roes. It  has  laughed  to  scorn  those  who  have 
dared  to  speak  of  a higher  than  hum.an  law,  and 
coupled  their  names  with  the  foulest  epithets  which 
malice  could  invent.  Arrogant,  selfish,  exclusive, 
meddlesome,  the  fashionable  society  of  "Washing- 
ton has  used  the  machinery  of  the  government  for 
its  own  support  and  aggrandizement.  No  unchris- 
tian and  oppressive  measure  has  ever  found  its 
slimy  way  through  Congress,  that  w^as  not  either 
engineered  or  aided  fey  the  fashionable  society  of 
Washington.  It  has  kept  its  gilded  wares  con- 
stantly in  the  political  market.  They  have  been 
hawked  about  by  scheming  women,  who  have 
boasted  of  successes  won  by  flatteries  and  favors 
which  degraded  them  and  all  who  received  them. 
It  never  has  been  the  fashion  to  be  virtuous  in 
public  affairs  at  Washington.  It  has  never  been 
the  fashion  to  be  devoted  to  the  interest  of  the  peo- 
ple there.  Morality,  integrity,  rehgion,  democ- 
I'acy,  patriotism — these  have  only  been  names  in 
Washington;  and  the  men  who  have  really  believed 
in  them,  and  who  have  undertaken  to  incorporate 
that  which  they  represent  into  their  living  and  do- 
ing, have  been  regarded  with  pity  or  derision. 

I am  smitten  by  wonder  when  I think  of  the 


FASHION, 


61 


power  which  bold  assumption  has  in  the  world — 
when  I see  how  it  moulds  the  hearts  and  bends  the 
wills  of  men.  I am  smitten  by  wonder  when  I see 
how  the  masses  of  men  bow  to  the  assumptions  of 
fashionable  society.  I see  everywhere  a class  of 
men  who  assume  to  give  the  law  of  social  distinc- 
tion to  the  communities  in  which  they  live.  This 
law,  so  far  as  it  reaches,  is  supreme.  The  great 
and  the  httle,  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  old  and 
the  young,  bow  to  it,  and  regulate  themselves  and 
their  relations  by  it.  It  ignores  Christianity, 
moral  worth,  intellectual  culture,  personal  loveli- 
ness— everything  most  prized  in  the  soul’s  hfe  and 
loves  and  friendships — and  decides  upon  the  posi- 
tions of  men  and  women  by  its  own  rule.  It  shuts 
out  from  the  circle  of  its  sympathies  and  support  a 
good  man  because  he  is  poor;  it  bids  a bad  man 
welcome  because  he  is  rich.  It  ignores  the  charms 
of  a beautiful  and  gifted  woman  because  she  earns 
her  bread;  it  accepts  an  old  and  ugly  remnant  of 
an  old  and  ugly  family  because  she  manages  to  live 
upon  her  friends.  It  kicks  the  young  man  of  mod- 
est worth  and  noble  aims  and  industries,  and  kisses 
the  idle  lout  whose  worth  ls  on  his  back  and  whose 
graces  are  in  his  heels.  It  receives  a religious  sect 
into  favor  and  frowns  upon  all  others.  In  every 
variety  of  hfe  which  it  enters,  it  assumes  the 
pre-eminence,  bending  to  nothing,  and  deliberately 
opposing  itself  to  Christianity  as  the  dominant  ele- 
ment in  our  civihzation. 

But  I hasten  to  the  third  point  wdiich  I have 


62 


FASHION. 


proposed  to  discuss,  viz.,  fashionable  literature. 
There  is  fashion  in  hterature.  Nowhere,  indeed, 
is  it  more  exclusive  or  despotic;  nowhere  is  it 
more  mischievous.  I make  the  unqualified  state- 
ment, that  fashion  has  always  insisted  on  the  di- 
vorce of  Christianity  from  elegant  literature.  It 
has  jpatronized  with  a lavish  hand  the  mythologies 
of  ancient  Greece  and  Eome,  with  aU  their  classical 
and  cursed  abominations;  and,  in  modern  days 
particularly,  it  has  treated  with  dainty  tenderness 
the  Korans  and  Yedas  and  Shasters  of  swarthier 
and  more  insignificant  heathen.  I will,  if  you 
please,  admit  that,  sometimes,  as  a matter  of 
favor,  it  has  accorded  to  the  sacred  writings  of  the 
Jews  a place  by  the  side  of  the  sacred  writings  of 
the  Hindoos.  Nay,  I will  go  further,  and  confess 
that  the  name  of  God  is  sometimes  used  by  the 
most  fashionable  writers  as  a sonorous  old  noun  for 
the  rounding  of  a period,  and  that  ‘‘the  sweet 
Christ,’’  or  “the  Spotless  One,”  as  He  is  patroniz- 
ingly called,  is  worked  up  very  handsomely  for  orna- 
mental purposes  in  works  of  sentiment.  But  Je- 
sus Christ,  the  personal  representative  of  Jeho- 
vah on  the  earth — the  very  centre  and  soul  of  that 
civilization  which  embraces  the  moral,  social,  and 
political  salvation  of  the  human  race — ^its  breath, 
bread  and  hfe-blood — is  a name  never  heartily 
spoken  by  the  writers  whom  Fashion  recognizes  as 
her  own.  It  is  not  fashionable  to  write  a Christian 
book.  It  is  not  fashionable  to  read  a Christian 
book.  To  these  two  facts  ambition,  when  yoked 


FASmOK 


63 


■witli  genius,  has  almost  uniformly  bowed,  and, 
haying  performed  its  fashionable  work,  gone  for- 
ward to  its  fashionable  reward.  In  vain  have  I 
searched  the  pages  of  fashionable  literature,  includ- 
ing much  of  what  we  call  elegant  letters,  to  find 
what  has  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  gemoine  Christian 
element.  In  all  the  exquisite  creations  which  have 
found  life  and  immortality  in  fashionable  fiction,  I 
have  never  met  one,  so  far  as  I can  remember,  that 
was  put  forward  as  a genuine  embodiment  of  Chris- 
tian piety.  Lovely  women  we  have  had  in  abund- 
ance; women  of  beauty  and  brilliancy  and  virtue; 
women  of  amiable  dispositions  and  noble  instincts; 
but  of  women  whose  whole  lives  were  ordered  by 
Christian  principle,  by  conscience,  by  the  love  of 
God  and  the  love  of  humanity,  alas!  how  few! — 
alas!  none! 

Here  and  there  some  sweet-faced,  sad-souled  de- 
votee has  been  developed  and  described,  not  be- 
cause she  was  pious,  but  because  she  was  pictur- 
esque, and  never  with  sympathetic  interest  on  the 
part  of  the  writer.  We  have  plenty  of  caricatures 
of  Christian  ministers,  and  Christian  societies,  and 
Christian  reforms;  but  never  any  examples  of  what 
the  writer  accepts  as  the  genuine  article.  We  have 
had  Chadbands  and  Stigginses,  and  Dominie 
Sampsons  and  Cream  Cheeses — reverend  fops  and 
reverend  fools  without  number;  and  these  men 
have  been  thrust  forward  in  aU  fashionable  fiction 
as  the  representatives  of  Christianity. 

Now,  mark  you,  I do  not  complain  that  these 


64 


FAsmom 


cliaracters  are  presented.  I do  not  believe  in 
shielding  a humbug  because  he  wears  a white  cra- 
vat, nor  do  I claim  that  in  every  work  of  fiction  a 
writer  is  bound  to  represent  both  sides  of  every 
subject  v/hich  he  introduces.  What  I complain  of, 
is,  that  fashionable  writers,  throughout  their  whole 
fives,  criticise  and  caricature  Christian  meii,  insti- 
tutions, reforms,  and  practices,  which,  on  the  basis 
of  their  own  ideal,  they  never  seek  to  embody  and 
represent.  They  are  fond  of  exposing  Christian 
pretension.  I find  no  fault  with  this,  for  if  there 
is  anything  that  deserves  to  be  held  up  to  ridicule 
and  scorn,  it  is  Christian  pretension.  This  is  not 
my  complaint  at  all.  I complain  that,  for  anything 
to  be  found  in  their  works  to  the  contrary,  they 
consider  all  Christianity  pretension,  and  ail  Chris- 
tians pretenders.  They  never  introduce  Christian 
character,  Christian  principle,  Christian  love,  and 
Christian  purpose,  as  golden  elements  in  literary 
creation  and  composition. 

Let  me  illustrate.  Charles  Dickens  is  a fashion- 
able author,  and  he  is  not  only  fashionable,  but 
popular,  and  popular,  too,  with  the  Christian  pub- 
lic. Now'  no  man  can  admire  moi^e  ardently  than 
I do  the  genius  of  Charles  Dickens.  No  man,  ac- 
cording to  the  measure  of  his  nature,  can  sym^Da- 
thize  more  thoroughly  than  I do  with  the  many 
lovely  characters  and  the  sweet  humanities  wdiicli 
throng  the  path  of  his  delightful  pen;  but,  so  far 
as  I can  learn  from  his  waitings,  that  pen,  thrilling 
to  its  nib  with  the  genius  which  inspires  it,  has 


FASHION. 


05 


nev^er  written,  in  good,  lionest  text,  the  name  of 
Jesus  Christ.  And  when  I say  this,  I mean  all  that 
my  Tvords  can  comj)ass  and  convey.  The  Christian 
element  is  not  to  be  found  in  his  writings.  Chris- 
tianity is  not  brought  forward,  either  as  a cure  or 
a mitigation  of  the  evils  which  his  eyes  are  so  ready 
to  see,  and  the  'woes  which  touch  him  with  so  quick 
a sympathy.  You  'svill  find  in  Dickens  travesties 
of  missionary  enterj)rise,  and  ridicule  of  various 
schemes  of  Christian  reform;  but  nowhere,  so  far 
as  I can  remember,  any  e'vidence  that  he  either 
loves  Christianity,  or  believes  in  it,  as  his  own  and 
the  world’s  consolation  and  cure. 

I have  not  read  Thackeray  to  find  him  better, 
even  when  I take  into  account  the  sulphurous  sa- 
tire w'hich  he  points  with  such  deadly  fire  at  the 
very  society  which  makes  him  fashionable.  It  is 
the  fashion  to  read  Thackeray,  and  the  fashion  to 
admire  him,  though  he  is  far  less  popular  than  his 
rival;  and  we  have  to  thank  him  for  his  exposure 
of  the  shallowness  and  shabbiness  of  the  fashionable 
life  which  engages  his  caustic  pen;  but  he  has 
never,  so  far  as  I know,  administered  any  medicine 
but  satire.  He  has  never  shovm,  by  direct  teach- 
ing or  by  any  form  of  art,  the  radical  cure  for  the 
life  'which  he  so  keenly  satirizes  and  so  thoroughly 
despises.  Image-breaker  he  may  be,  but  no  re- 
former. With  his  pen  of  gold  he  probes  every 
social  sore  with  merciless  precision;  but  lie  leaves 
it  black  with  his  own  ink,  and  unblessed  by  any 
balm. 


GO 


FASHION. 


I name  tliese  men  only  because  they  are  represen- 
tative men, — because  most  of  the  fashionable  novel- 
writing  of  the  time  consists  of  Dickens  and  Thack- 
eray diluted  and  flavored  according  to  the  feeble 
necessities  of  the  producers  and  the  flatulent  men- 
tal habit  of  the  consumers.  All  that  is  and  all  that 
aims  to  be  genuinely  fashionable,  ignores  Chris- 
tianity as  the  matrix  of  a true  literature,  and  dis- 
cards the  social  and  political  systems  which  are 
its  offspring  as  its  choicest  framework  and  mate- 
rial. 

We  have  an  abundance  of  theology:  we  have 
countless  volumes  of  excellent  practical  sermons — • 
duly  labelled,  that  no  one  shall  mistake  them  for 
elegant  hterature;  we  have  a planet-full  of  pious 
stories,  written  by  goodish  men  and  women,  whose 
stupidity  has  nullified  any  honor  to  Christianity 
which  they  may  have  intended, — but  only  here 
and  there  has  genuine  genius,  inspired  and  im- 
pelled by  Christianity,  worked  freely  and  honestly 
in  literary  creation  and  composition;  only  here 
and  there  has  Christian  hfe  been  carved  out  of  the 
world’s  hfe,  and  thrown  into  a form  of  art  which 
reveals  its  transcendent  virtue  and  'beauty. 

It  must  be  known  to  you  that  there  is  a class  of 
writers  in  every  country  who  assume  to  be  the 
fashion  in  hterature.  You  wih  find  them  clustered 
around  a literary  institution,  or  a hterary  maga- 
zine, or  united  in  a hterary  club  or  cabal.  They 
constitute  what  irreverent  persons  have  denominat- 
ed a mutual-admiration  society.  We  know  httlo 


FASHION. 


67 


of  tlie  tie  wliich  unites  them,  but  we  know  that  no 
plummet-line  is  long  enough  to  sound  the  depths 
of  their  self-complacency,  and  that  no  common 
understanding  can  understand  the  understanding 
that  exists  between  them.  We  Imow  that  while 
they  criticise  each  other  in  private,  they  toast  each 
other  in  iDubhc,  and  quote  each  other  in  print,  and 
that  when  one  of  them  dies,  they  sow  his  grave 
with  eulogies  that  are  kept  constantly  thrifty  by  co- 
pious showers  of  Maynard  & Noyes.  We  know  that 
neither  man  nor  woman  is  regarded  as  having  any 
position,  or  any  right,  in  the  field  of  letters  without 
their  indorsement,  and  that  neither  man  nor  wo- 
man can  obtain  that  indorsement  without  the  ac- 
knowledgment of  their  supreme  authority.  We 
know  that  their  principal  purpose  is  the  nursing 
and  rearing  of  reputations — the  conservation  andi^ 
canonization  of  names;  and  that  literary  art  is 
never  regarded  by  them  as  only  true  and  legitimate 
when  it  is  made  the  minister  of  a Christian  civiliza- 
tion. We  know  that  they  regard,  or  pretend  to  re- 
gard, the  most  indifferent  productions  of  their 
sacred  circle  as  the  offspring  of  genius,  and  that 
all  men  who  fail  to  detect  in  the  productions  them- 
selves the  reason  for  their  good  opinion,  are  re- 
garded by  them  as  devoid  of  hterary  judgment. 
And  more  than  all  this:  we  know  that  a modest 
and  self-distrustful  pubhc  voluntarily  disfranchises 
itself  by  acknowledging  merits  which  it  does  not 
see  and  cannot  feel,  simply  because  it  is  the  fashion 
to  admire  or  to  admit  them.  We  know  also  that 


G8 


FASHION, 


these  literary  fashionables  have  multitudes  of  ab- 
ject worshippers  who  regard  them  fearfully  from 
afar,  and  others  who  will  crawl  upon  their  bellies 
for  a bow,  and  become  their  toadies  and  tools  for  a 
single  glass  of  their  Madeira. 

All  this  we  know,  and  yet  how  well  we  know 
that  we  must  go  outside  of  this  circle  to  find  the 
Christian  power  in  literature  that  is  to  move  the 
world  toward  the  religious  and  political  millennium. 
We  never  find  in  this  circle  a power  effluent  in  all 
directions  upon  the  world  of  hfe  around  it,  to  melt 
and  mould,  to  elevate  and  bless,  but  a beautiful 
show  of  gifts  and  graces,  that  have  conspired  to- 
gether to  attract  the  admiration  of  tributary 
gazers. 

Now  I put  it  to  your  candor  to  say  whether  it  is 
^ not  true,  that,  in  the  opinion  of  this  fashionable 
literary  cabal,  this  self-constituted  court  of  litera- 
ture, religion  hurts  a book?  Is  not  hearty,  practi- 
cal, devotional  Christianity  regarded  by  this  court 
as  a foreign  element?  a something  which  is  not  at 
home  in  elegant  literature  at  all?  Is  it  not  true 
that  any  literary  work  which  is  burdened  with  a 
Christian  mission  is  regarded  as  laboring  under  a 
disadvantage?  Answer  these  questions  as  I know 
you  must  answer  them,  if  you  are  well  informed, 
and  you  yield  essentially  aU  that  I claim  touching 
the  influence  of  fashionable  hterature  upon  Chris- 
tian civilization. 

It  is  possible  that  you  will  teU  me  that  there  are 
some  truly  Christian  writers  who  are  fashionable. 


FASHION, 


GO 


There  are,  indeed,  beautiful  names  that  rise  to  you 
and  to  me,  before  which  even  the  fashionable  bow 
with  reverent  admiration.  I think  of  one  whose 
genius  v>^as  angelic;  Vv^ho  swept  all  the  chords  of 
human  passion  with  fingers  that  shook  with  the 
stress  of  their  inspiration;  Avho  soared  and  sang  as 
never  woman  soared  and  sang  before : v/hose  eyevy 
uttered  word  leaped  from  her  lips  like  a bird,  radi- 
ant in  plumage  and  glorious  in  music;  yet  v/hoso 
heart  was  the  dwelling-place  of  an  all-controlling, 
all-subordinating  Christian  ]purpose.  She  looked 
out  upon  humanity  with  a love  ineffable  even  to 
her.  She  looked  up  to  Heaven  with  a Christian 
adoration  to  which  even  her  marvellous  gift  of  lan- 
guage could  give  no  fitting  expression.  Her  whole 
being  throbbed  and  sparkled  like  the  sea,  stretch- 
ing its  pure,  life-giving  sympathies  around  the 
world,  and  tossing  evermore  its  white  hands  toward 
the  stars.  Ah!  yes;  she  soared  and  sang  as  never 
woman  soared  and  sang  before;  soared  and  sang  at 
last,  Enghsh  sky-lark  though  she  was,  into  the 
golden  dawn  of  Itahan  nationality,  till  the  attrac- 
tion of  the  earth  was  surpassed,  and  Heaven  drev/ 
her  home.  Ehzabeth  Barrett  Browning!  How 
the  pretentious  stuff  that  drapes  our  mutual  ad- 
miration societies  becomes  fustia,n  in  the  presence 
of  her  queenly  robes! 

I think  of  a name  nearer  home  than  this — the 
name  of  one  now  living — one  of  whom  I may  not 
speak  in  such  terms  as  her  consecrated  genius  de- 
serves, because  she  Lives.  You  have  read  her 


70 


FASHION. 


books,  for  they  have  been  read  in  many  lands  and 
many  languages — read  more  widely  than  the  works 
of  any  otlier  hving  writer.  In  these  works  she  has 
incori3orated  the  religion  of  Jesus  Christ,  as  it  is 
incorporated  in  her  own  hfe  and  character.  She 
has  devoted  her  magnificent  genius  to  the  cause  of 
Christian  reform,  and  wields  a |3en  whose  power 
one  would  as  httle  think  of  questioning  as  the 
power  of  the  sun  or  the  lightning.  Under  the  in- 
spiration of  Christianity  she  writes  for  humanity, 
entering  as  a Christian  power  into  hfe  and  charac- 
ter wherever  books  are  read  and  hearts  are  open; 
and  she  sits  to-day  the  queen  of  a realm,  all  of 
which  she  has  either  subjugated  or  created.  In 
your  hearts  you  have  already  spoken  the  name  of 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 

There  are  others,  still,  whose  names  come  to  you 
and  to  me.  I might  pronounce  the  name  of  our 
Gabriel  in  drab — trumpet- tongued  for  the  right, 
trumpet-tongued  against  the  wrong;  loving  the 
poor  man  more  than  the  rich,  loving  both  more 
than  himself,  loving  God  more  than  all — John 
Greenleaf  Whittier.  I might  speak  of  him  whose 
catholic  sympathies  and  whose  quick  sense  of 
Christian  truth  and  love  and  justice  are  as  evident 
in  his  “Bigiow  Papers”  as  in  his  golden  ‘Wision 
of  Sir  Launfal  ” — James  Bussell  Lowell.  I might 
speak  of  Charles  Kingsley,  a great  Christian  genius, 
or  of  John  Buskin,  the  peerless  scholar  and  Chris- 
tian leader  of  art,  or  of  Dr.  John  Brown,  whose 
‘‘Spare  Hours”  have  linked  their  Christian  arms 


FASHION, 


71 


\^itb  your  spare  liours,  I trust,  and  helped  them 
heavenward. 

Now  do  you  ask  me  if  these  are  not  fashionable 
writers?  Do  you  a;3k  me  why  writers  whom  fash- 
ionable people  praise  are  not  fashionable?  Simjslyi 
because  they  are  Christian  and  catholic  in  their 
spirit,  their  sympathies,  their  associations,  and 
their  objects,  and  are  as  little  dependent  on  fashion 
for  their  reward  as  they  are  influenced  by  it  in 
their  work.  They  have  a genius  which  commands 
respect  and  reverence  even  among  the  fashionable, 
in  spite  of  the  Christian  inspiration  which  informs 
and  the  Christian  purpose  which  possesses  it. 
They  have  nothing  in  common  vhth  those  whose 
sole  aim  is  to  gather  a reputation  and  make  a name. 
They  may  be  fashionable  in  a certain  negative 
sense,  perhax>s, — ^in  the  fact  that  it  would  be  un- 
fashionahle  to  betray  such  lack  of  common  sense  as 
to  deny  their  genius.  Do  you  suppose  that  fash- 
ionable witers,  and  the  lovers  of  fashionable  litera- 
ture, love  the  objects  for  which  Mrs.  Browning 
and  Mrs.  Stowe  have  labored?  that  they  sympa- 
thize with  Mr.  Whittier  and  Mr.  Lowell  and  Mr. 
Kingsley?  Not  at  all.  They  look  upon  all  of 
them  as  amiable  fanatics,  and,  while  they  acknowl- 
edge their  genius,  regard  their  unselfish  devotion 
to  the  world  of  men  and  women,  and  God’s  truth 
in  its  relations  to  them,  as  an  element  of  weakness. 

I have  said  that  it  is  not  fashionable  to  put 
Christianity  into  elegant  literature.  I may  and  I 
should  say,  here  and  now,  that  it  is  not  fashionable 


72 


FASIII027, 


to  put  it  into  a literary  address.  It  is  not  fasliion- 
able  for  an  unprofessional  literary  man  to  deliver 
such  an  address  as  I am  now  delivering  before  a 
literary  audience.  Have  we  not  men  clothed  in 
black  and  choked  with  white  cravats  wiio  are  paid 
for  this  sort  of  service?  Have  we  not  temples 
built  for  it?  Is  there  not  one  day  in  seven,  or- 
dained for  religious  purposes  from  the  foundation 
of  the  world,  in  wiiich  these  temples  are  thrown 
open  that  these  men  may  be  vocal  in  their  voca- 
tions? These  Christian  addresses  are  things  ^hat 
we  get  done  by  the  year!  Is  not  butter  furnished 
by  the  season?  Are  not  gas  and  water  paid  for  by 
the  quarter?  Every  man  to  his  work  in  the  regnlar 
way.  Ho  handling  of  Christianity  by  common 
hands,  especially  literary  hands,  on  ordinary  occa- 
sions, especially  hterary  occasions.  ‘‘Ah!  don’t 
mingle  ” — ^you  remember  the  familiar  music. 

Now,  my  idea  of  the  Christian  rehgion  is,  that  it 
is  an  inspiration  and  its  vital  consequences — an  in- 
sphation  and  a life — God’s  life  breathed  into  a 
man  and  breathed  through  a man — ^the  highest  in- 
spiration and  the  highest  life  of  every  soul  which 
it  inhabits;  and,  furthermore,  that  the  soul  w^hich 
it  inhabits  can  have  no  high  issue  which  is  not  es- 
sentially rehgious.  There  are  those  who  make  it 
their  business  to  promulgate-  dogmatic  Christianity: 
let  them  fulfil  their  calling  in  the  proper  time  and 
place.  There  are  adepts  in  scriptural  exposition: 
let  them  exercise  their  gifts  on  all  proper  occasions. 
There  are  earnest  souls  whose  personal  exhortations 


FASIII02^. 


73 


have  po'v\"er  to  inove  men  to  a religious  life:  God 
speed  them  everywhere.  It  is  of  none  of  these 
things  or  of  these  men  that  I speak.  My  point  is, 
that  a man  in  whom  religion  is  an  inspiration,  who 
has  siuTendered  his  being  to  its  power,  who  drinks 
it,  breathes  it,  bathes  in  it,  cannot  speak  otherwise 
than  rehgiously.  The  magician  can  draw  an  un- 
counted variety  of  wines  from  a single  flask,  but 
the  alcoholic  base  runs  through  them  all.  So  the 
rehgious  soul  may  give  forth  utterances  of  various 
forms  and  flavors,  but  one  spirit  imparts  to  each  its 
vitahty  and  power. 

We  never  know  a man’s  measure  till  we  take  it 
for  his  coffin.  You  will  find  among  fashionable 
writers  such  wearing  of  high-heeled  boots,  such 
mounting  upon  stilts,  such  sporting  of  tall  hats 
and  riding  of  high  horses,  that  you  will  be  obliged 
to  get  them  down  and  get  the  tape  upon  them  be- 
fore you  can  tell  how  much  space  they  wifi,  occupy. 
Their  names  will  shine  upon  the  coffin-hd,  and 
they  wiU  bury  weU,  and  stay  buried;  but  no  grave 
can  hold  a fruitful  Christian  genuis.  We  say  that 
Mrs.  Browning  is  dead,  we  say  that  Mrs.  Browm- 
ing  is  buried;  but  we  know  that  she  fives,  and  that 
she  walks  the  earth,  and  wings  the  air,  and  sits 
with  us  here  to-night.  The  earth  is  not  broad 
enough,  the  earth  is  not  deep  enough,  to  bury  Mrs. 
Browning  in. 

I have  thus  attempted  to  expose  to  you  the  na- 
ture and  the  tendency  of  fashion,  as  it  exists  in 
personal  character,  in  social  fife,  and  in  literature. 


74 


yASUION. 


I have  endeavored  to  show  you  that  it  is  essentially 
aristocratic,  and  must  therefore  be  opposed  to  a 
genuine  Christian  civilization  and  a true  democ- 
racy. It  practically  denies  the  rightful  supremacy 
of  Christianity  in  every  held,  ignores  its  grand, 
levelling  truths,  and  maintains,  through  corrupt 
convention,  an  independent  standard  of  morals. 
It  is  exclusive,  devoted  to  clique  and  caste,  and 
thoroughly  sympathetic  with  all  systems  and 
schemes  of  life  and  all  forms  of  society  and  govern- 
ment which  take  power  and  profit  from  the  many 
and  give  them  to  the  few. 

Ill  this  great  hour  of  our  national  history,  I have 
chosen  this  subject  that  a useful  lesson  may  be  won 
from  it.  I have  tried  to  speak  not  as  a politician 
or  a partisan,  but  as  a philosopher,  who  believes  in 
the  beneficence  of  democratic  institutions  and  the 
conservative  ]oower  of  Christianity.  This  demo- 
cratic government  of  ours  was  founded  by  Chris- 
tian men,  on  Christian  principles.  It  can  only  be 
peiqDetuated  by  Christian  men,  on  Christian  princi- 
ples. Whenever  it  passes  into  the  hands  of  an 
aristocratic  class,  wdiich  denies  the  rights  of  the 
meanest  man,  and  sustains  itself  by  the  oppression 
and  disfranchisement  of  the  laboring  masses,  that 
moment  it  must  cease  to  exist,  and  a despotism 
wiU  take  its  place.  A class  that  denies  a black 
man  the  privilege  of  a man,  will  deny  a powerless 
white  man  the  same — alwa^ys  and  everywhere. 

The  struggle  in  this  country  is  now  and  has  been 
for  years  between  a democracy  with  a Christian 


FASmOK 


75 


conscience,  and  an  aristocracy  fanatically  devoted 
to  human  slavery.  The  rebellion  originated  in  a 
dominating  class,  with  which  no  Christian  demo- 
crat in  this  country  can  possibly  have  any  sympa- 
thy; and  the  power  of  that  class  must  be  destroyed, 
utterly,  or  a Christian  democracy  cannot  possibly 
be  the  dominant  power  on  this  continent. 

The  sympathy  and  the  support  which  the  rebel- 
hon  has  received  from  the  upper  classes  of  Great 
Britain  and  continental  Europe,  have  been  natural 
and  inevitable.  The  aristocratic  classes  of  Europe 
recognize  the  nature  of  the  struggle,  and  take  the 
side  of  the  aristocratic  class  of  this  country.  I do 
not  wonder  at  it;  I do  not  blame  them  for  it;  and 
I do  not  care  a straw  about  it.  We  are  fighting 
the  great  battle  of  the  people — the  great  battle  of 
democratic  and  Christian  equality  against  the  com- 
bined aristocracies  of  the  world,  and  all  that  fash- 
ionable class,  at  home  and  abroad,  which  sympa- 
thizes with  them.  And  when  the  day  of  our  vic- 
tory shall  come,  as  it  will  come,  let  us  remember 
that  if  we  would  secure  the  national  safety  forever, 
we  must  thenceforward  and  forever  make  Chris- 
tianity poj)ular.  I do  not  say  that  we  must  make 
Christianity  fashionable,  for  it  cannot  be,  in  the 
nature  of  things.  We  must  make  it  popular,  and 
compel  every  pohtical  caucus,  convention,  candi- 
date, and  chque,  to  bend  to  it  and  obey  it.  When 
that  time  shall  come,  we  shall  have  arrived  at  the 
political  millennium, — and  the  time  must  come. 


WORK  AND  PLAT. 


The  hnmaii  race  presents  no  aspect  more  inter- 
teresting  than  that  which  it  wears  in  its  apron 
and  shirt-sleeves.  There  breathes  no  nobler  music 
under  heaven  than  the  roar  of  a great  city,  in  which 
the  din  of  wheels,  and  the  clangor  of  hammers, 
and  the  cries  of  the  hawker  and  the  auctioneer, 
and  the  hurried  tread  of  uncounted  thousands 
upon  the  pavement,  are  blunted  and  crushed  and 
blended  into  a sublime  monotone,  that  rises  and 
swells,  and  surges  and  subsides,  from  day  to  day, 
through  all  the  prosperous  centuries.  There  is 
nothing  more  wonderful  than  that  labyrinthine 
net-v/ork  of  human  interests,  spread  finely  over  a 
continent  and  more  broadly  “enveloping  a world, 
out  from  whose  indistinguishable  intersections  run 
the  daily  efforts  of  the  earth’s  thronging  millions. 

There  is  an  office  for  every  man,  and  a man  for 
every  office.  One  builds  a ship,  another  turns  a 
spool;  one  paints  a madonna,  another  decorates  a 


WOBK  AND  PLAY. 


77 


toy;  one  attends  a Idng,  anotlier  grooms  a horse; 
one  sends  a ship  to  the  Indies,  another  gleans  the 
oital  of  the  streets;  one  writes  a*  hook,  another 
places  it  in  type;  one  conducts  a railroad- train  over 
a hundred  miles,  another  trundles  a wheel-barrow 
up  and  dovTi  a planli.  Millions  hve  among  the 
whirl  of  spindles  emd  the  clash  of  looms;  and  other 
millions  ply  the  needles  that  fashion  their  fabrics. 
On  cotton-fields  and  corn-fields,  on  farms  and  plan- 
tations, in  workshops  and  mills,  on  the  water  and 
on  the  land — everywhere,  everywhere — men  and 
women  are  at  work.  The  brain  and  nerve  and 
muscle  of  the  world  expend  their  energy,  day  after 
day,  in  tidal  sweeps  through  every  artery  of  indus- 
tiy;  and  thus  the  world’s  great  heart  throbs  and 
throbs;  and  thus  it  will  throb  until  its  strings  shall 
shiver  in  dissolution. 

This  is  a worldng  world — a serious,  earnest,  hard- 
working world;  yet  it  is  not  all,  or  not  always,  so. 
Rising  out  of  this  daily  vision  of  work,  and  harmo- 
niously blending  with  it,  like  variations  sporting 
with,  and  above,  a musical  theme,  there  are  other 
scenes  that  attract  attention.  A steamer  pushes 
out  into  the  bay,  \vith  music  swelling  and  stream.ers 
fl,ying  over  a happy  company  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  upon  an  excursion  of  pleasure.  Under 
the  shadow  of  a grove  the  groups  of  a picnic  romp 
and  run,  and  laugh  and  chat,  through  the  long 
summer  afternoon.  In  public  halls  and  private 
l^ailors  feet  move  to  the  sound  of  the  viol  through 


78 


WORK  AND  PLAT, 


the  merry  evenings,  till  they  cross  the  bars  of  micb 
night.  Children  frohc  upon  the  lawn,  and  boys 
play  at  football  or  cricket  upon  the  common.  All 
over  the  country,  where  the  snow  falls,  old  and 
young  are  sleighing  and  skating  and  shding  under 
the  moon;  and  wherever  the  surf  roils  in  upon  a 
pleasant  beach,  or  crystal  waters  mirror  lordly 
mountains,  or  the  earth  bubbles  with  its  mineral 
treasures,  a nation  of  languid  travellers  gather  dur- 
ing the  heat  of  summer,  for  relaxation  and  enjoy- 
ment. 

So  this  world  is  a world  of  work,  not  only,  but  a 
world  of  play.  Surely  something  of  present  inter- 
est and  permanent,  practical  value  may  be  said  of 
things  which  absorb  more  than  haK  of  the  time, 
and  aU  the  energy,  of  the  civilized  world;  and  I 
propose  to  devote  the  hour  to  the  discussion  of 
Work  and  Play,  and  the  illustration  of  their  mean- 
ing and  their  mission. 

I have  not  selected  this  subject  because  there  is 
much  that  is  brilliant  or  amusing  to  be  said  upon 
it,  but  because  there  is  no  man,  not  too  indolent  to 
attend  a lecture,  who  does  not  possess  a practical, 
every-day  interest  in  it.  I have  selected  it,  too,  be- 
cause I beheve  that  the  popular  notions  with  re- 
lation to  it  are  in  many  respects  erroneous,  and  in 
some  respects  unhealthy  and  even  dangerous.  My 
aim  wiU  be: 

First,  To  reveal  the  relations  of  work  and  play 
to  the  development  of  the  worker; 


WORK  AND  PLAY, 


79 


Second,  The  relations  of  work  and  play  to  each 
other,  in  securing  this  development; 

Third,  Their  relations  to  the  health  and  happi- 
ness of  the  race;  and, 

Fourth,  To  suggest  something  of  their  ultimate 
results. 

The  fii-st  tiling  to  be  done  is  to  define  our  terms. 
What  is  work,  and  what  is  play? 

Work  is  the  exercise  of  the  mind,  or  the  body, 
or  both,  under  the  command  and  control  of  the 
will,  for  the  attainment  of  an  object  of  fancied  or 
real  utility. 

Play  is  the  exercise  of  the  mind,  or  of  the  mind 
and  body,  at  the  instance  of  impulses  originating 
in  the  conditions  and  dispositions  of  the  system, 
and  expending  ■ themselves  without  an  object,  be- 
yond momentary  satisfaction.  Work  contemplates 
achievement  and  acquisition,  and  has  its  end  out- 
side of,  and  beyond,  itself,  so  far  as  relates  to  the 
worker’s  intent.  Play,  self-moved,  seeks  for  noth- 
ing further  than  present  gratification,  and  has  its 
end  in  itself.  Will  is  the  master  of  work.  It  fixes 
its  goal,  and  then  harnesses  and  drives  all  the  hu- 
man faculties  toward  it,  or  to  it.  Play  removes 
their  harnesses,  hangs  up  the  whip,  and  releases 
them  to  the  impulses  which  move  them  to  show 
the  iron  upon  their  heels,  to  roll  in  the  sand,  or  to 
frisk  upon  the  sward.  Work,  under  will,  is  deter- 
mined, persistent,  and  steady;  play,  under  impulse, 
is  volatile,  and  dehghts  in  change. 

Now  let  us  go  directly  to  nature  for  our  first  les- 


80 


WORK  AND  FLAT. 


son  in  the  meaning  and  mission  of  Tfork  and  play. 
The  boy  is  born  into  the  world  a dehcate  organism 
— a soft  bundle  of  brains  and  nerves,  and  bones 
and  muscles,  and  vessels  and  hmbs,  without  will, 
and  without  the  power  of  self-support  and  self- 
direction.  The  first  months  of  his  hfe  are  passed 
in  a land  of  unconscious  consciousness,  and  nothing 
higher  is  expected  of  him  than  that  he  pull  the 
whiskers  of  his  father,  and  smile  appreciatingly 
when  his  mother  talks  nonsense  to  him.  Soon  he 
begins  to  grasp,  or  to  reach  after,  the  things  he 
sees — a pearl-button,  a coffee-pot,  a chandeher,  or 
a church-steeple;  and  we  feel  that  great  progress 
has  been  made  when  he  can  shake  his  rattle-box 
three  times  and  repeat,  even  if  the  performance  be 
slightly  spasmodic  and  irregular.  The  months 
pass  away,  and  he  stands  upon  his  feet;  and  after 
a brief  and  delightful  tutelage,  he  waddles  about 
wherever  his  impulses  lead  him.  He  takes  trips 
of  ten  feet  upon  his  father’s  cane,  which  not  unfre- 
quently  proves  refractory  and  throws  him.  Ho 
frohcs  with  the  kittens,  or  hugs  them  to  death. 
He  builds  block-houses,  and  knocks  them  down. 
He  excavates  convenient  sand-banks.  He  delights, 
above  all  things,  in  the  open  air,  and  runs  because 
he  loves  to  run;  but  whether  within  doors  or  with- 
out, he  is  always  in  mischief.  From  morning  to 
night  his  little  muscles  are  in  motion;  and  when 
compelled,  at  last,  to  go  to  bed,  he  relinquishes 
his  play  with  tears.  Year  by  year,  as  he  grows  up 
through  boyhood,  the  range  of  his  play  is  widened. 


WOEK  AND  FLAY, 


81 


He  drives  other  boys  four-in-hand,  or  plays  at  ball, 
31’  shdes  down  hill,  or  runs  races,  or  wrestles,  or 
goes  iinnting  and  fishing. 

Novv',  what  makes  this  boy  play?  And  what  does 
fcliis  play  do  for  him? 

He  plays  because  he  cannot  help  it — ^because  in 
the  central,  motive  forces  of  his  nature  God  has 
vuitten  the  command  to  play.  He  has  no  end  be- 
yond the  gratification  of  his  momentary  and  shift- 
ing impulses.  He  plays  because  the  life  within 
him  exults  in  action,  and  delights  in  expenditure. 
Tired  in  one  direction  of  amusing  or  pleasant  effort, 
he  turns  toward  another;  and  thus,  one  by  one,  or 
grou})  by  gi’oup,  he  calls  into  activity  all  the  facul- 
ties of  his  mind  and  all  the  functions  of  his  body. 
He  has  no  object,  I rejDeat,  in  this  constant  action 
and  constant  change;  but  God  has.  This  play  is 
for  the  symmetrical  development  of  the  boy,  of  all 
the  powers  of  which  he  is  the  possessor;  and  no 
boy  without  play  was  ever  well-developed,  or  ever 
can  be.  A boy  who  does  not  play,  and  does  not 
love  to  play,  is  not  a healthy  boy,  mentally,  mor- 
ally, or  physically,  no  matter  how  many  precious 
hymns  he  can  reioeat,  nor  how  well  he  can  say  his 
catechism.  Play  is  the  Creator’s  ordained  means 
for  the  development  of  the  child.  I am  aware 
that  it  drives  weak-headed  mothers  crazy,  and  ag- 
gravates the  aggregate  of  the  shoe-bill,  and  makes 
terrific  work  with  trousers;  but  it  makes  men,  and, 
as  a general  rule,  the  boy  that  plays  the  best, 
makes  the  best  man. 


82 


wonic  ANT)  PLAY. 


There  is  a sad  amount  of  fighting  against  Heaven 
in  the  attempts  made  by  ii’ritable  and  impatient 
parents  to  repress  the  playful  manifestations  of 
their  children.  Carefully  and  reverently  I declare 
that  God  impels,  nay,  compels,  the  child  to  play, 
and  that  those  who  strive  to  crush  the  spirit  of  play 
in  children  for  the  security  of  their  own  ease  and 
comfort,  or  from  mistaken  notions  of  the  nature 
and  the  mission  of  play,  oppose  Him  as  really  as 
when  they  set  themselves  against  any  movement  or 
policy  in  His  moral  universe. 

Play  is  a sacred  thing,  a divine  ordinance,  for 
developing  in  the  child  a harmonious  and  healthy 
organism,  and  preparing  that  organism  for  the 
commencement  of  the  work  of  life.  I insist  upon 
this,  at  this  point,  for  I shall  call  it  up  again  in  the 
course  of  this  discussion;  I insist  that  play  is  not 
only  an  innocent  thing  in  itself,  but  that  it  is  an 
essential  portion  of  the  divinely  apiDointed  means 
for  the  development  of  the  race  into  its  liighest 
earthly  estate. 

In  order  that  our  lesson  may  not  be  comphcated, 
we  will  leave  the  period  of  study  out  of  considera- 
tion, and  put  our  boy  to  work.  Perhaps  he  has 
already  performed  a few  tasks  about  the  house, 
wilhngly  or  unwillingly,  but  they  have  been  so 
light  that  he  has  not  seriously  felt  them.  That 
the  work  may  be  simple,  we  will  apprentice  him 
to  a trade.  This  little  bundle  of  organs,  grovn 
into  compactness  and  power  through  the  exercise 
which  play  has  procured,  is  placed  under  a task- 


WORK  AND  PLAT. 


83 


master.  Tlie  first  day,  perhaps  the  first  week,  is 
passed  dehghtfiiUy,  because  it  has  the  charm  of 
novelty;  but,  at  last,  his  mind,  strained  in  one 
direction,  and  his  muscles,  exercised  in  a single 
style  of  action,  become  weary.  At  this  point  be- 
gins the  discipline  of  work — the  bringing  of  all  liis 
faculties  under  the  control  of  his  will.  He  flinches 
from  his  task,  perhaps,  but  his  will  spurs  him  on. 
He  looks  from  his  window,  and  sees  other  boys  en- 
gaged in  play,  and  longs  to  be  among  them;  but 
his  win  vetoes  his  impulses,  and  keex)s  liim  to  his 
work. 

Thus  these  organs  that  have  been  developed  by 
play,  and  this  hfe  that  wiU  manifest  itself  in  action, 
bend  themselves,  under  the  command  of  will,  to 
the  accomphshment  of  useful  results.  Directed  by 
intelligence,  and  starting  from  rationally  ai^pre- 
hended  motives,  they  take  their  way  along  the 
channels  of  the  world’s  industry. 

Here  dawns  upon  us  the  mission  of  work.  God, 
by  implanting  in  the  boy  the  impulse  to  play,  has 
taken  care  of  his  development  up  to  this  point. 
As  a boy,  he  is  complete;  but  manhood  demands 
something  further,  and  he  must  be  trained  to  self- 
impuLsion,  self-direction,  and  self-control.  The 
organs  which  play  has  prepared,  work  puts  to  use. 
Over  these  young  faculties  the  will  is  placed  in 
oiSce,  and  is,  itself,  developed  by  the  exercise  of 
its  functions.  The  mission  of  work  is  never  fully 
accomplished  until  the  will  has  attained  supreme 
control  of  aU  the  mental  and  bodily  faculties,  and 


84 


WORK  AND  PLAY. 


those  faculties  have  become  obedient  and  efficient 
instruments  of  the  will.  Patience,  persistence, 
and  power  to  do,  are  only  acquired  by  work. 

But  we  are  leaving  our  boy.  If  w^e  watch  him 
at  the  close  of  his  daily  task,  we  shall  find  him 
very  weary,  but  very  ready  to  play.  He  has  been 
working  in  a single  direction.  A single  group  of 
faculties  and  a single  set  of  muscles  have  been  em- 
ployed during  the  day,  and  before  he  sleeps.  Na- 
ture impels  him  to  bring  those,  that  have  been  un- 
employed into  harmony  -with  them.  The  strain 
must  be  released,  and  the  worked  and  the  un- 
worked boy  must  be  reconciled  to  each  other  by 
play,  before  both  can  sleei^  well.  So,  through  the 
evening  the  boy  is  as  active  as  the  liveliest,  and  as 
boisterous  as  the  noisiest;  and  at  bed-time,  if  he  be 
not  rested,  he  is  ready  to  rest,  and  to  rest  well. 
He  sleeps  better  at  night,'  and  he  works  better  the 
next  day,  for  this  play;  and  thus,  play  comes  in  as 
the  minister  and  helper  of  work.  The  used  and 
the  unused  faculties  are  harmonized  with  each  other, 
and  developed  together.  If  the  impulse  to  play 
between  the  periods  of  labor  be  suppressed,  and 
nothing  of  the  bo}^  be  developed  save  the  faculties 
engaged  in  his  special  work,  he  will  become  not 
only  the  slave  of  w^ork,  but  he  will  be  transformed 
into  its  creature.  Woe  to  him  if  he  fail  to  yield  to 
the  impulses  to  play  which  start  up  among  his  un- 
used faculties,  until  those  faculties  dwindle  be- 
yond the  power  to  give  birth  to  an  impulse! 

This  simple  illustration  has  introduced  us  to  the 


WORK  AND  FLAY, 


85 


primaiy  and  principal  olHces  of  work  and  play. 
In  this  illustration  tliey  reveal  themselves  as  co- 
ordinately  essential  in  that  economy  which  contem- 
plates the  higliest  human  development.  The  de- 
velopment which  God  seeks  for  is  the  growth  and 
perfection  of  the  power  to  do.  Play  does  what  it 
can  for  this  object,  and  work,  in  widely- varied 
forms  of  ministry,  does  the  rest. 

Our  illustration  has  not  only  revealed  the  pri- 
mary relations  of  work  and  play  to  human  develop- 
ment, but  it  has  suggested  something  of  their  re- 
lations to  each  other,  and  thus  brought  us  to  the 
second  point  under  discussion.  I begin  with  the 
proposition  that  work  was  made  for  man,  and  not 
man  for  work.  Work  is  man’s  servant,  both  in  ita 
results  to  the  worker  and  the  world.  Man  is  not 
work’s  servant,  save  as  an  almost  universal  perver- 
sion has  made  him  such.  We  need  not  go  beyond 
the  circle  of  our  immediate  acquaintances  for  in- 
stances of  this  perversion.  Every  variety  of  work 
has  stamped  itself  and  left  its  stamp  upon  society. 
Almost  eveiywhere  men  have  become  the  particu- 
lar things  which  their  particular  work  has  made 
them.  In  the  place  of  a broad,  strong,  symmetrical 
manhood,  we  have  a weak,  crippled,  and  distorted 
manhood.  We  know  a thoroughly- worked  old 
lawyer  as  readily  as  we  do  an  old  fox.  We  can 
recognize  a Wall-street  financier  at  thirty  paces, 
and  can  tell  a clergyman  as  far  as  we  can  see  him. 
There  are  very  much  greater  difierences  between 
a Yankee  farmer  and  a Yankee  sailor  than  in  the 


86 


WORK  AND  PLAY, 


length  of  their  trousers.  There  are  round  shoul- 
ders, and  pnlpy  muscles,  and  halting  limbs,  and  all 
varieties  of  bodily  and  mental  eccentricities,  result- 
ing from  the  slavish  pursuit  of  the  different  call- 
ings. The  negroes  on  the  cotton  plantations  of 
the  South,  who  carry  water  to  the  field  upon  their 
heads,  become  bald  upon  the  spot  where  ‘Hhe 
hair  ought  to  grow  ” by  the  weight  and  friction  of 
the  jugs,  but  they  are  no  more  distinctly  stamped 
by  their  work,  and  are,  in  fact,  not  half  so  bald,  as 
multitudes  of  whites  who  bear  heavier  burdens  of 
a different  kind. 

Thus  have  men  become  the  creatures  of  their 
work,  and  thus  has  work  become  to  them,  in  many 
respects,  a curse.  When  work  enslaves  a gToup  of 
faculties,  and  employs  and  develops  that  group  to 
the  neglect  or  the  death  of  aU  others,  then  does  it 
surpass  and  abuse  its  office.  This  it  is  that  makes 
one-sided  men,  partial  men,  fractional  men.  This 
it  is  that  puts  the  menial  stamp  upon  men,  that 
brands  them  with  the  name  of  their  tyrant-master. 
This  it  is  which  spoils  manhood,  and  debases  its  suli- 
jects  to  the  level  of  their  calling.  This  it  is  which 
too  often  transforms  men  into  lawyers  and  financiers 
and  ministers  and  merchants  and  farmers  and  hod- 
carriers — ^beings  who  can  do  one  thing,  and  noth- 
ing else — ^^vho  are  competent  in  one  direction,  and 
babies  or  fools  in  every  other  direction.  I say 
again,  that  man  was  not  made  for  work,  but  work 
for  him,  and  that  its  office  is  abused  in  the  degree 
by  which  it  hinders  the  symmetrical  development 


WORK  AND  PLAY, 


87 


of  all  Ills  faculties.  One  of  the  direct  roads  to 
bmtality  lies  through  unaUeviated  and  undiversi- 
fied bodily  labor.  Let  a man  be  worked  and  fed 
as  a brute  is  worked  and  fed,  and  he  will  become  bru- 
tal. A man  using  only  the  faculties  demanded  by 
his  calling  will  develop  only  those  faculties.  So  it 
is  evident  that  something  besides  work  is  necessary 
for  healthfid  development,  after  the  peculiar  pe- 
riod of  play  is  passed. 

If,  now,  we  turn  to  play  as  the  exclusive  agent 
in  the  development  of  the  adult,  we  shall  find  it 
still  more  inadequate  than  work,  because  in  play 
there  is  no  purpose  and  no  training  of  powder  under 
■will.  Up  to  a certain  period  of  life  play  is  every- 
thiug  that  is  necessaiy.  Wherever  it  is  suppressed, 
and  the  young  mind,  or  the  young  body,  or  both, 
are  put  into  the  harness  of  work,  disease  or  disas- 
ter is  the  result.  I know  not  which  to  pity  most — 
the  infants  crow^ded  into  a premature  development 
of  brain  and  mind,  or  the  pale-faced  dwarfs  among 
the  factory-boys.  Whenever  I see  a pale,  old  face 
on  a young  body,  I know  that  somebody’s  willful 
ignorance,  or  somebody’s  cupidity,  needs  forgive- 
ness. 

Up  to  a certain  point  of  development,  I say, 
play  only  is  necessary.  Beyond  that  point  work 
must  come  in  with  its  discipline,  or  play  Avill  de- 
generate into  dissipation.  There  are  fe-\^  more 
pitiable  objects  than  men  and  women  who  have 
never  had  anything  to  do  but  to  amuse  themselves. 
They  are  pitiable  because  useless,  jpoweiiess,  and 


88 


WORK  AND  PLAY. 


unliappj.  The  whole  horde  of  dandies  and  de- 
votees of  fashion — men  and  women  who  have  no 
higher  employment  than  ministry  to  vanity  and 
ax^petite  and  passion — are  blanks,  or  blotches,  on 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  beneficent  schemes 
of  the  Creator,  and  objects  of  disgust  to_  every 
healthy  soul.  As  much  as  many  working-men  de- 
sire ease,  I have  never  seen  one  who  did  not  in  his 
inmost  soul  despise  an  idle  man,  or  one  who  could 
do  nothing. 

Play,  I repeat,  leaves  entirely  out  of  considera- 
tion one  of  the  iDrincipal  offices  of  work,  viz.,  the 
training  of  the  will.  It  is  all-important  that  the 
intense  vitality  that  comes  in  with  manhood  and 
womanhood  be  under  control,  and  be  directed  into 
legitimate  channels  of  expenditure.  As  childhood 
is  left  behind,  new  x>assions  take  possession  of  the 
individual;  and  if  he  be  left  to  the  sway  of  impulse, 
he  will  be  almost  certain  to  gravitate  toward  sensu- 
ahty.  There  is  abundant  life  to  be  expended 
somewhere — if  not  in  work,  then  in  something  else. 
Impulse  will  be  sure  oi  the  mastery  if  the  will  be 
weak  and  vacillating.  Appetite  is  clamorous,  and 
passion  is  imperious,  and  an  undeveloped  and  im- 
trained  will,  will  bend  readily  under  the  stress  of 
these  motives.  It  is  notorious  that,  almost  without 
exception,  these  young  men  who  are  never  x>ut  to 
work,  especially  if  they  have  strong  vitality  in 
them,  sink  into  vice.  The  reason  is,  that  exclusive 
play,  after  the  period  of  childliood,  naturally  de- 
generates into  dissipation.  The  will  bends  before 


WOBK  AND  PLAY. 


89 


tlie  strongest  imiDiilse,  or  lends  it  its  aid ; and  tlio 
strongest  impulse  is  born  of  tlie  strongest  passion 
that  happens  to  be  in  exercise. 

Not  nnfreqnently  we  have  striking  instances  of 
this  dissipation  and  degi*adation,  and  the  corrective 
influence  of  work  when  resorted  to  for  the  first 
time  in  adult  life.  We  afl  of  us  know  young  men 
who  have  led  a life  of  gaiety  and  vice  upon  the 
paternal  wealth,  and  we  have  seen  them  become 
the  terror  and  disgrace  of  a neighborhood,  the 
bane  and  bmden  of  a home,— given  up,  as  hope- 
lessly debauched,  by  their  best  friends.  Yet, 
when  some  great  disaster  has  whelmed  the  v/ealth 
upon  which  they  have  hved,  and  a great  motive  of 
action  has  presented  itself  to  them,  we  have  seen 
them  sobered  in  a day,  and,  under  the  disciijiine  of 
labor,  become  men  of  character  and  of  power. 
Among  men,  these  cases  may  be  rare;  but  among 
women,  cases  not  dissimilar  are  abundant.  Yfith 
them,  play  is  more  a dissipating  and  less  a debas- 
ing habit,  and  reformation  is  consequently  easier. 
How  many  gay  girls  have  we  seen — ^butterflies, 
giddy,  thoughtless,  undisciplined  creatures — ^be- 
coming sober,  noble,  and  devoted  wives  and  moth- 
ers, when  marriage  and  maternity  have  put  the 
disciplme  of  work  upon  them.  How,  under  the 
motive  of  a great  love,  has  their  work  often  taken 
on  the  character  of  a great  heroism! 

So,  neither  work  nor  play  is  sufficient  of  itself; 
and  now,  before  I come  to  the  practical  discussion 
of  the  relations  of  play  to  labor  in  adult  life,  I re- 


90 


WORK  AND  PLAY. 


call  the  question  of  the  essential  nature  of  play.  I 
propose  that  it  has  as  legitimate  functions  in  *the 
life  of  the  man  and  the  woman  as  in  that  of  the 
child,  and  that,  in  the  discharge  of  those  functions, 
it  is  in  no  sense  sinful,  thriftless,  or  undignified. 
The  religious  asceticism  that  has  placed  its  ban 
upon  play  in  its  various  manifestations,  the  hard 
economy  that  denounces  it  as  wasteful  of  time  and 
money,  and  the  stolid  dignity  that  regards  it  with 
contempt,  are  essentially  moral  nuisances.  Play 
may  not  have  so  high  a place  in  the  divine  econo- 
my, but  it  has  as  legitimate  a place,  as  prayer. 
Its  direct  importance,  when  wq  contemplate  useful 
results,  is  not  so  great  as  that  of  work;  but  it  is  es- 
sential to  the  healthful  development  of  the  worker, 
and  essential  in  keeping  the  machinery  of  v/ork  in 
order.  It  is  the  great  harmonizer  of  the  human 
faculties,  overstrained  and  made  inharmonious  by 
labor.  It  is  the  agency  that  keeps  alive,  and  in 
healthy  activity,  the  faculties  and  sympathies  which 
work  fails  to  use,  or  helps  to  repress.  It  is  the  con- 
servator of  moral,  mental,  and  physical  health. 

I have  never  seen  a man  who,  through  a long 
life  of  labor,  has  been  playful,  giving  liimseK  up 
in  the  hours  of  his  leisure  to  the  lead  of  his  inno- 
cent impulses,  who  was  either  bigoted,  invalid,  or 
insane.  In  short,  play  is  as  innocent  and  as  legiti- 
mate in  the  man  as  in  the  boy,  provided,  of  course, 
that  it  start  from  innocent  impulses,  and  ansAver 
its  legitimate  ends. 

I bring  out  this  point  Avith  special  2^1'ominence, 


WOEK  AND  PLAY. 


91 


because  many  of  the  innocent  modes  of  play,  Hive 
play  itself,  have  been  placed  under  ban  by  well- 
meaning  people  who  are  possessed  by  the  notion 
that  all  time  spent  in  play  is  mis-spent,  and  that 
aU  money  devoted  to  play  is  mis-appropriated: 
who  beheve  that  the  idle  words  and  the  thriftless 
deeds  of  play  are  those  for  which  they  are  to  be 
brought  into  judgment.  Play  is  to  be  resorted  to 
intelligently  and  conscientiously,  without  doubt, 
and  should  never  descend  into  dissipation.  It 
should  always  be  of  that  kind  and  amount  which 
wiU  induce  the  most  perfect  sleeia;  which  will  the, 
most  thoroughly  harmonize  the  functions  of  the 
mind  and  body,  wearied  and  distracted  by  work; 
which  will  best  nourish  the  faculties  that  work  has 
neglected;  and  which  will  best  prepare  both  body 
and  mind  for  the  pursuit  of  work.  This  is  the  mis- 
sion of  play  to  the  worker;  and  a great  blessing 
would  it  be  to  the  world  could  it  be  intelligently 
apprehended  as  such.  A gTeat  blessing  would  it 
be,  could  the  almost  universal  bondage  of  the 
world  to  the  idea  that  play  comioromises  Christian 
consistency,  and  worldly  thrift,  and  manly  dignity, 
be  forever  broken.  A great  blessing  would  it  be, 
could  a mistakenly  conscientious  world  look  heav- 
enward, and  feel  the  full  blessedness  of  the  truth 
that  God  smiley  upon  His  creatures  at  play  as  be- 
nigiiantly  as  when  they  are  at  work,  and  that  He 
frowns  as  indignantly  upon  that  work  which  en- 
slaves and  distorts  and  spoils  them,  as  upon  that 
excess  of  play  which  dissipates  or  prostitutes  them. 


92 


WORK  AND  PLAY. 


We  have  resorted  to  Nature  for  an  illustration  of 
the  effect  of  play  upon  the  boy:  let  us  go  to  the 
same  teacher  to  learn  the  united  effect  of  work  and 
play  upon  the  man.  The  simpler  the  illustration, 
the  better.  We  will  take  the  negroes  of  a cotton 
plantation.  They  will  sing  all  day  while  engaged 
in  their  work,  and  dance  all  night  after  it,  if  they 
can  get  a chance.  For  every  hard  task  they  have 
a song  which  helps  them  through.  It  is  in  this 
way  that  they  preserve  themselves  from  disease  and 
insanity.  If  you  would  find  invalids  and  lunatics, 
go  among  the  Yankees,  and  particularly  the  Yan- 
kee farmers.  By  this  play,  these  negroes  become 
safe  property  to  own.  They  follow  their  instincts 
and  impulses,  unchecked  by  any  conscientious  or 
economical  considerations;  and  I wish  that  all  the 
poor  slaves,  chained  to  the  oar  of  labor,  would  fol- 
low them  as  innocently. 

But  I can  bring  my  lesson  from  a nearer  point 
than  this.  I appeal  to  you  to  testify  if  there  do 
not  come  to  you,  at  the  close  of  each  day’s  hearty 
and  healthy  labor,  the  desire  to  play.  You  go 
home  from  your  work  to  your  dinner  or  your  tea, 
and  when  you  rise  from  your  table,  (if  you  are  not 
smokers,)  what  is  your  first  impulse?  Springs 
there  not  in  you  that  which  tells  you  there  is  some- 
thing which  should  intervene  between  that  point 
and  sleep?  You  love  that  wife,  or  those  children, 
or  sisters,  better  than  all,  of  course;  but  is  it  your 
supreme  desire  to  sit  quietly  down  with  them  and 
spend  the  evening?  Is  it  the  most  delightful  thing 


WORK  AND  PLAY. 


93 


you  can  imagine  to  cloze  over  your  evening  paper 
for  an  hour,  and  retire  to  bed  as  early  as  you  de- 
cently can?  Never,  unless  v/ork  lias  killed  the  best 
part  of  you.  Do  you  not  feel  that  you  need  some- 
thing besides  rest  and  before  it?  Is  it  not  habitual 
for  it  to  occur  to  you  that  you  have  “an  appoint- 
ment,” that  you  must  go  to  the  post-office,  or  go 
somewhere?  Do  you  not  long  to  get  into  the  open 
am,  and  to  wander  where  you  hst?  I know  that  I 
touch  the  experience  of  every  healthy  working- 
man present.  Now,  believe  me,  this  is  God’s  voice 
in  your  nature  bidding  you  play,  and  you  have  no 
right  to  disregard  it.  It  is  under  this  untaught 
impulse  that  the  slave  resorts  to  smging  and  danc- 
ing. It  is  this  impulse,  perverted,  which  drives 
the  poor  toper  to  his  pot-house  and  his  pot-house 
companions.  It  is  this  impulse,  under  a German 
education  and  German  habits,  that  takes  the  Ger- 
man to  his  garden  and  his  lager-bier;  but  you, 
with  higher  tastes  and  better  impulses,  resort  to 
nothing  at  all  but  a barren  walk  in  a giddy  street, 
and  feel  yourselves  obhged  to  make  a business 
apology  for  that!  “They  order  these  tlimgs  bet- 
ter in  France.” 

I therefore  make  the  assertion,  that  every  intelli- 
gent worker — every  man  and  woman  whose  facul- 
ties, under  will,  are  trained  and  held  to  the  per- 
formance of  a daily  task — should  always  have  regu- 
lar periods  of  play. 

The  practical  question  now  arises  as  to  what  this 
play  shall  be.  It  should  never  be  that  which  is  es- 


9i 


WORK  AND  PLAT. 


sentially  work — that  which  is  felt  to  be  a tax  ol 
power,  under  will.  If  you  have  read  Dickens,  you 
will  remember  the  picture  of  Dr.  Blimber’s  young 
gentlemen  as  they  appeared  when  enjoying  them- 
selves,” walking  out  in  dignified  and  dressy  couples, 
with  the  Doctor  at  their  head,  and  the  boys  of  the 
street  turning  summersets  in  the  foreground. 
There  is  a great  deal  of  this  bastard  play,  in  which 
the  young  have  been  forced  into  walks  which  wor- 
ried them,  and  tasks  which  disgusted  them,  as  a 
relief  to  study  or  work.  Exercise  which  has  been 
the  severest  mental  and  bodily  discomfort  has  been 
mistaken  for  play.  I have  seen  young  men  work- 
ing away  for  dear  life  at  saw-horses,  or  scudding 
over  barren  miles  as  if  a ghost  were  after  them,  or 
swinging  dumb-bells,  when  I knew  they  were  en- 
gaged in  harder  tasks  than  those  from  which  they 
sought  relief.  This  muscle -movement,”  as  it  is 
called,  in  our  colleges,  will  amount  to  but  little  if 
the  element  of  X3lay  do  not  enter  largely  into  it. 
A young  man,  or  a young  woman,  who  takes  exer- 
cise of  set  x>urpose  for  the  x>reservation  of  health, 
may  in  some  instances  succeed;  but  the  chances 
are  against  success,  in  all  cases  where  the  exercise 
alternates  with  periods  of  severe  labor,  of  any  kind. 
The  severest  exercise  may,  indeed,  be  play,  but 
"that  which  is  felt  to  be  a task  is  not  play,  and  can 
never  be  made^to  take  the  place  of  it. 

The  mode  of  every  man’s  play  must  be  deter- 
mined by  the  indications  of  his  tastes,  conditions, 
and  dis}30sitions.  There  are  some  who  enjo^ 


wo  UK  AND  FLAY, 


U5 


athletic  games,  and  are  never  so  mncli  at  home  as 
when  on  the  cricket- ground,  or  the  bowling-alley, 
or  the  row-boat.  Play  of  this  character  has  the 
double  power  to  give  mental  relief,  and  preserve 
and  develop  physical  health  and  strength.  Every 
intelhgent  lover  of  his  country  and  his  kind  will 
hail  the  fresh  attention  attracted  to  this  kind  of 
play  wdth  gladness  and  gratitude.  It  is  time  that 
this  over-worked  nation — this  nation  of  narrow 
shoulders,  and  flat  chests,  and  v/eak  arms  and  spin- 
dle-shanks— possessed  more  of  the  characteristics 
of  physical  manhood.  Who  wonders  that  strong- 
handed and  strong-minded  women  assert  their 
lights  in  the  presence  of  such  a race  of  men  as 
this?  Were  I such  a woman,  with  such  a husband 
as  such  a woman  invariably  has,  if  she  has  any,  I 
would  assert  mine.  Why  is  it  that  the  good  men 
of  a city  permit  the  bad  men  to  rule  it?  Why  is  it 
that  the  respectable  men  of  a ward  allow  rowdies 
to  keep  them  from  the  ballot-box?  Because,  and 
only  because,  they  lack  pluck  and  prowess,  and 
are  physically  afraid  of  them.  The  cause  of  public 
decency,  nay,  the  cause  of  Christianity,  demands 
more  muscle,  and  I am  glad  to  see  that  it  is  likely 
to  get  it.  In  such  times  as  these,  and  in  such  as 
seem  likely  to  come,  the  church  militant  would 
find  abundant  employment  for  a saintly  corps  of 
robust  and  muscular  men. 

There  are  others  who  most  enjoy  society,  and 
who  find  recreation  and  reward  in  a genial  circle 
of  friends.  Much  is  to  be  done  for  the  play  of  the 


OG 


WORK  AND  PLAY. 


nation  by  a more  generous  development  of  its  so- 
cial life.  Work  has  well-nigh  Idlled  out  this  kind 
of  play.  How  few  are  the  impulses  among  the 
every-day,  hard  workers  of  the  •world  to  mingle  in 
society!  We  wander  from  our  work  into  lonely 
moodiness,  for,  though  we  may  have  something  to 
receive,  we  are  conscious  that  we  have  nothing  to 
give,  in  social  intercourse.  How  many  are  there 
in  my  audience  who  shrink  from  receiving  com- 
pany, and  who  dread  to  go  into  it,  because  too  con- 
stant and  too  much  work  has  spoiled  them  for  so- 
cial life?  Work  has  exhausted  them;  work  has 
possessed  them,  and  they  cannot  get  their  thoughts 
out  of  it.  Work  has  absorbed,  drunk  up  all  their 
vital  juices;  and  if  they  go  to  a social  gathering, 
they  are  either  driven  or  dragged  there. 

It  is  in  a genial  social  life  that  the  worker  comes 
into  contact  mth  minds  developed  in  various  direc- 
tions. A congregation  of  sympathies  touch  him  at 
every  point,  and  stimulate  his  whole  nature  into 
dehghtful  activity.  It  is  in  society  that  knowledge 
is  equaUzed,  and  experience  harmonized,  and  all 
those  faculties  that  work  has  kept  from  free  de- 
velopment, and  those  sympathies  that  work  has 
cursed,  are  called  into  demonstration.  It  is  in  so- 
cial life  that  the  adult  is  always  to  find  his  best 
play,  and,  until  work  has  destroyed  the  disposition 
to  play,  it  is  there  that  he  will  always  seek  it.  In 
the  mind  of  the  healthy  man  and  woman,  as  in  the 
mind  of  the  healthy  boy  and  girl,  play  and  society 
will  be  inseparable  thoughts  and  things.  The  mo- 


WORK  AND  PLAY, 


97 


ment  that  work  has  so  far  abused  a man  that  he 
loses  the  impulse  to  play,  that  moment  his  love  of 
society  is  lost.  So  I advise  all  those  who  find 
themselves  averse  to  going  into  society,  to  go  until 
they  like  it,  as  they  will  be  sure  to  do,  so  soon  as 
the  mischief  which  work  has  wrought  shall  have 
been  remedied. 

Lonely  walking,  unless  among  new  scenery,  can- 
not be  play,  except  in  peculiar  conditions  of  the 
mind.  Koutine  walking,  in  order  to  be  play, 
should  always  be  social  'walking.  It  takes  two 
X3airs  of  ears,  at  least,  to  enjoy  the  music  of  a wa- 
terfall, and  two  x^airs  of  eyes  to  weigh  the  gold  of 
a sunset  with  just  appreciation. 

To  a great  multitude,  riding  is,  perhaps,  the 
most  dehghtful  of  out-door  play.  The  man  and 
woman  who  carry  heavy  burdens  love  to  be  car- 
ried. This  love  of  being  carried  begins  in  the 
mother’s  arms,  and  is  never  outgrown.  There  is 
something  in  the  passive  exercise  of  riding,  and 
even  in  the  society  of  a horse,  if  one  can  get  no 
better,  that  is  eminently  refreshing.  I never  des- 
pair of  a man  who  really  loves  the  society  of  an  in- 
telligent horse.  A man  who  lives  as  a man  should 
live,  never  outgrows  his  love  of  playthings,  and  he 
should  always  have  them.  The  httle  girl  plays 
with  her  doll,  the  mother  with  her  baby;  the  boy 
plays  with  his  rocking-horse,  the  man  with  the  liv- 
ing animal;  and  baby  and  horse  are  just  as  really 
XDlaythings  as  doll  and  hobby. 

Happy  are  ye  who  own  horses,  and  love  them 


98 


WOHK  AND  PLAY, 


and  know  how  to  use  them;  and  happy  will  you  all 
be  when  you  get  rich  enough  to  own  and  keep  one. 
In  the  mean  time,  let  your  imagination  tell  you  of 
the  horse  which  is  to  come.  His  color  shall  be 
bay — dark  and  glossy,  hke  the  throat  of  a wdld 
pigeon;  and  his  mane  and  tail  shall  be  black  and 
flowing.  His  pace,  when  you  wish  to  be  soothed, 
shall  be  as  gentle  a.s  the  motion  of  a yacht  under 
easy  sail;  and,  wdien  you  wish  to  be  exhilarated, 
he  shall  fly  like  the  wind.  He  shall  draw  you  and 
yours  over  the  smoothly-gravelled  roads,  and  learn 
to  know  and  love  his  burden.  He  shall  whinny 
for  you  in  his  stall,  and  inform  you  in  his  choicest 
forms  of  “ horse-talk  ” that  aU  your  admiration 
of  him  is  appreciated.  You  will  speak  pet  phrases 
in  his  ear,  your  children  shall  caress  him,  and  he 
shall  catch  their  spirit  and  become  playful  hke 
them  and  like  you.  You  will  tell  him  that  he  is 
very  beautiful;  that  there  is  grandeur  in  the  arch 
of  his  neck;  that  there  is  grace  in  aU  his  action; 
and  that  it  is  not  a sin  for  a horse  to  be  proud. 
When,  by  intimate  association  with  you,  he  shall 
become  half  human,  you  will  make  known  to  him 
the  beautiful  truth,  that  when  you  were  young  God 
gave  you  ready  and  active  limbs  to  play  with,  but 
now,  when  work  has  tired  them.  He  has  given  you 
a horse. 

Every  man,  I say  again,  must  determine  what 
his  j)lay  shall  be.  I say,  must  determine,  because 
he  only  can  judge  what  is  play  to  him — what  his 
taste  selects,  and  what  his  nature  calls  for — and  be- 


WORK  AND  PLAY. 


99 


cause  there  is  a duty  involved  in  the  matter.  To 
every  man  who  has  the  power  to  spend  a portion 
of  his  time  in  play,  I say  that  you  have  no  right  to 
spoil  yourself  by  refusing  to  play.  You  have  no 
right  to  prostitute  all  the  noble  faculties  of  your 
soul,  and  the  powers  of  your  frame,  to  the  offices 
of  work — to  becomes  the  things,  the  machines,  of 
a calling.  Y/hat  you  are  to  be  careful  about  is, 
that  your  play  be  that  which  best  reheves  your  la- 
bor, and  best  prepares  you  for  it;  that  it  do  not 
degenerate  into  dissipation,  nor  tend  in  vicious 
directions;  that,  for  the  time,  it  drive  work  from 
your  mind,  and  be  recognized  as  one  of  its  most 
grateful  rewards. 

There  can  be  no  radical  reform  in  this  matter 
until  the  popular  mind  shall  more  fully  comprehend 
the  intrinsic  nature  of  ^vork  and  its  relations  to  life. 
The  popular  mind  is  enslaved,  and  needs  emanci- 
pation. It  is  enslaved  to  the  idea  that  life  is  work 
and  that  work  is  hfe;  whereas  work  is  but  an  in- 
strument of  life,  to  be  held  at  arm’s-length,  and 
used  in  such  a way  that  there  shall  be  no  damag- 
ing reaction.  During  the  hours  of  labor,  the  mind 
should  bend  to  its  faithful  performance;  but  as 
soon  as  they  are  passed,  it  should  rise  out  of  work 
into  a free  and  noble  life.  The  Italian  beggar, 
after  obtaining  enough  for  a dinner,  contents  him- 
seK,  and  gives  himself  up  for  the  remainder  of  the 
day  to  music  and  maecaroni.  This,  you  say,  is 
very  stupid,  and  I think  it  is;  but  he  is  more  sensi- 
ble than  the  Broadway  merchant  or  the  Wall-street 


100 


WOBK  AND  FLAY. 


broker  whose  whole  soul  is  absorbed  by  work — 
who  is  in  it  all  day,  and  who  dreams  of  it  all  night. 
"We  need  emancipation,  if  for  nothing  else  than  for 
the  sake  of  a decent  family  hfe.  The  slave  of  work 
becomes  an  inharmonious  element  in  his  own 
home-circle.  It  is  pitiful  to  see  the  thousands  scat- 
tered all  over  this  country,  who,  through  insane 
devotion  to  business,  have  ceased  to  be  husbands 
and  fathers;  who  have  no  part  in  the  family-hfe 
but  to  furnish  funds  for  its  maintenance;  and  who 
are  only  treated  respectfully  by  wives  and  children 
because  they  are  crabbed  and  sour,  or  because 
they  carry  the  key  of  the  family  treasury. 

We  need  emancipation,  and  the  tendency  to  it  is 
happily  evident.  It  is  evident  in  the  more  general 
circulation  and  entertainment  of  sound  and  ra- 
tional ideas;  evident  in  the  growing  love  of  htera- 
ture  and  art;  evident  in  the  increasing  attention 
directed  to  physical  culture  and  games  and  sports. 
These  facts  relate  pecuharly,  perhaps,  to  the  hter- 
ary  and  mercantile  classes;  but  there  is  abundant 
evidence  of  approaching  emancipation  to  the  tiller 
of  the  soil,  the  artisan,  and  the  operative.  The 
effect  of  labor-saving  machinery  must  ultimately  be 
to  reduce  the  hours  of  labor,  as  it  has  aheady  miti- 
gated its  severity.  The  work  of  a day  will  be 
crowded  into  a smaller  space;  and  so  soon  as  our 
people  can  learn  that  gold  is  not  the  highest  good, 
and  that  man  is  something  better  than  a beast  of 
burden,  we  shall  throw  off  the  shacldes  wliich  now 
make  our  callings  our  masters,  and  which  reduce 


WOEK  AND  PLAY. 


101 


our  life  to  one  long,  unmitigated  bondage  to 
work. 

I now  pass  to  tlie  relations  of  work  and  play  to 
the  health  and  happiness  of  the  race.  Use  is  the 
condition  of  health  in  all  the  human  faculties  and 
fimctions.  We  have  seen  that  it  is  the  condition 
of  development;  and  health  is  naturally  imphed  in 
the  same  condition.  When  a plant  grows  strongly 
and  thriftily,  it  is  in  its  healthiest  state : so,  when 
the  faculties  of  the  mind  and  the  powers  of  the 
body  thrive  the  best,  are  they  naturally  the  healthi- 
est. Happiness  depends  also  upon  the  same  con- 
dition : for  a complete  human  organism,  in  j)rocess 
of  full,  healthy  development,  must  be  happy,  or, 
in  other  v/ords,  consciously  harmonious.  Work 
and  play,  then,  do  not  stop  at  develoxDment  as  their 
direct  result  to  the  individual,  but  they  make  him 
healthy,  and  they  make  him  hap]3y  so  far  as  ha]ppi- 
ness  depends  upon  the  harmonious  movements  of 
his  comphcated  nature.  Utter  idleness  is  but  an- 
other name  for  utter  misery.  As  a symmetrical 
development  depends  upon  the  use,  in  work  and 
play,  of  all  the  human  faculties,  so  also  do  health 
and  hapx>iness.  I do  not  beheve  the  world  can 
furnish  a man  who  has  for  any  length  of  time  been 
entirely  absorbed  in  the  duties  of  a calling,  and  is, 
at  the  same  time,  healthy  and  happy.  It  is  impos- 
sible in  the  nature  of  things  that  he  should  be  so. 

Here  we  arrive  at  a point  of  importance.  Nei- 
ther develox^ment,  nor  health,  nor  liajDpiness  can  be 
secured,  in  their  full  degree,  unless  the  mind  be 


102 


WOUK  AND  PLAY. 


animated  by  a purpose  to  secure  an  object  in  which 
it  is  interested.  There  must  be  a glad  consent  of 
the  mind  to  the  efforts  of  its  life,  or  use  will  be 
nothing  better  than  slavery.  Childhood  may  do 
without  a grand  purpose,  but  manhood  cannot. 
For  the  accomplishment  of  this  purpose,  work  is 
the  instrument;  to  its  accomphshment,  play  is  only 
indirectly,  though  essentially,  tributary.  There 
must  be  a tendency  of  the  life,  starting  from  an  in- 
telligently apprehended  purpose,  to  certain  ends 
or  certain  results,  before  everything  in  a man — ^be- 
fore all  things  in  a man — can  move  harmoniously. 
Now  the  mind  of  no  healthy  and  sound  man  can 
gladly  consent  to  a life  of  slavery  to  a calhng.  It 
revolts  from  such  a life;  and  play  comes  in  here, 
not  only  as  an  agent  in  development,  but  as  a men- 
tal relief  and  a mental  reward.  If  a few  hours  of 
work  purchase  and  secure  a few  hours  of  play,  then 
is  the  work  sweetened  as  an  exercise,  and  rewarded 
as  a finished  performance. 

In  this  philosophy  we  shall  find  at  least  one  of 
the  causes  of  the  discontent  and  the  not  unfrequent 
disaster  that  attend  retirement  from  business.  No 
man  in  the  possession  of  his  faculties  can  actually 
retire  from  business  and  be  happy.  The  moment 
a life  loses  its  purpose,  and  seeks  for  its  sole  enjoy- 
ment in  play,  and  the  neglect  of  the  use  of  its 
powers,  that  moment  it  loses  its  happiness.  It 
matters  nothing  how  rich  a man  may  be;  the  mo- 
ment those  purposes  of  life  are  gone  to  which  the 
work  of  his  life  has  been  devoted,  he  will  become 


WOBK  AND  PLAT. 


103 


miserable,  provided  he  have  any  power  left  for  the 
fulfilment  of  a purpose.  Your  memory  will  recall 
many  a man  who  has  retired  from  business  only  to 
die,  or  to  become  a melancholy  invalid.  So  long 
as  a man  retains  his  faculties,  and  his  control  of 
them,  he  must  remain  in  harness  if  he  would  be 
happy.  He  must  possess  and  pursue  a purpose,  or 
bid  farewell  to  the  zest  of  life.  Here  is  where  the 
greedy  multitude  of  money-makers  make  wreck  of 
themselves.  They  deny  to  themselves  play  while 
the  work  of  their  fife  is  in  progress,  in  order  to 
have  a few  years  of  play,  or  uninterrupted  ease,  at 
the  end  of  it.  'When  their  money  is  made,  they 
find  themselves  spoiled  for  play,  and  having  ac- 
comphshed  their  purposes,  life  is  utterly  spoiled 
for  them.  The  truth  is  that  play,  for  the  man  and 
woman,  was  never  intended  to  be  a steady  dish, 
but  the  condiment  of  a steady  dish.  Play  is  to  be 
taken  every  day,  or  never.  The  moment  that  the 
purposes  of  life  are  accomphshed,  play  has  lost  not 
only  its  power  but  its  significance;  and  a man  who 
has  really  retired  from  all  business  is  practically 
dead. 

Independence  and  self-respect  are  essential  to 
happiness,  and  these  are  never  to  be  attained  to- 
gether without  work.  It  is  impossil)le  that  a man 
shall  be  a drone,  and  go  through  hfe  without  a pur- 
pose which  contemplates  worthy  results,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  maintain  his  self-respect.  No  idle 
man,  however  rich  he  may  be,  can  feel  the  gen- 
uine independence  of  him  who  earn(j  honestly  and 


104 


WOBK  AND  PLAY, 


manfully  liis  daily  bread.  The  idle  man  stands 
outside  of  God’s  plan,  outside  of  the  ordained 
scheme  of  things;  and  the  truest  self-respect,  the 
noblest  independence,  and  the  most  genuine  dig- 
nity, are  not  to  be  found  there.  The  man  who 
does  his  part  in  hfe,  who  pursues  a worthy  end, 
und  who  takes  care  of  himself,  is  the  happy  man. 
There  is  a great  deal  of  cant  afloat  about  the  dig- 
nity of  labor,  uttered  mostly,  perhaps,  by  those 
who  know  httle  about  it  experimentally;  but  labor 
has  a dignity  which  attaches  to  httle  else  that  is 
human. 

To  labor  rightly  and  earnestly  is  to  walk  in  the 
golden  track  that  leads  to  God.  It  is  to  adopt  the 
regimen  of  manhood  and  womanhood.  It  is  to 
come  into  sympathy  with  the  great  struggle  of  hu- 
manity toward  perfection.  It  is  to  adopt  the  fel- 
lowship of  aU  the  gTeat  and  good  the  world  has 
ever  known. 

I suppose  that  aU  God’s  purposes  in  work  and 
play  are  fulfllled  in  the  completion  of  the  disciphne 
of  the  worker, — and  the  results  of  work  are  doubt- 
less laid  under  tribute  for  this  end;  but  man’s  di- 
rect purposes  culminate  in  the  achievement  of  ends 
relating  to  society,  institutions,  material  necessities, 
art,  literature,  and  the  varied  objects  of  human 
pursuit. 

It  is  in  achievement  that  work  throws  off  all  its 
repulsive  features,  and  assumes  the  form  and  func- 
tions of  an  angel.  Before  her,  like  a dissolving 
scene,  the  forest  fades,  with  its  wild  beasts  and  its 


WORK  AND  PLAY, 


105 


•s\'ild  men,  and  under  her  hand  smihng  villages  rise 
among  the  hills  and  on  the  plains,  and  yellow  har- 
vests spread  the  fields  with  gold.  The  city,  with 
its  docks  and  warehouses,  and  churches  and  j)al- 
aces,  springs  at  her  bidding  into  being.  The  track- 
less ocean  mirrors  her  tireless  pinions  as  she  ran- 
sacks the  chmes  for  the  food  of  commerce,  or  flames 
with  the  touches  of  her  steam-sped  messengers. 
She  binds  states  and  marts  and  caxDitals  together 
with  bars  of  iron,  that  thunder  with  the  ceaseless 
rush  of  life  and  trade.  She  pictures  all  scenes  of 
beauty  on  canvas,  and  carves  all  forms  of  excel- 
lence in  marble.  Into  huge  hbraries  she  pours  the 
wealth  of  countless  precious  lives.  She  erects 
beautiful  and  convenient  homes  for  men  and  wo- 
men to  dwell  in,  and  weaves  the  fibres  which  na- 
ture prepares  into  fabrics  for  their  covering  and 
comfort.  She  rears  great  civihzations  that  run 
hke  mountain-ranges  through  the  level  centuries, 
their  summits  sleeping  among  the  clouds,  or  still 
flaming  mth  the  fire  that  fills  them,  or  looming 
grandly  in  the  purple  haze  of  history.  Nature  fur- 
nishes material,  and  work  fashions  it.  By  the 
hand  of  art*,  work  selects,  and  moulds,  and  modi- 
fies, and  re-combines  that  which  it  finds,  and  gives 
utterance  and  being  to  those  compositions  of  mat- 
ter and  of  thought  which  build  for  man  a new 
world,  with  special  adaptation  to  his  desires,  tastes, 
and  necessities.  Man’s  record  upon  this  wild  world 
is  the  record  of  work,  and  of  work  alone. 

Work  explores  the  secrets  of  the  universe,  and 


106 


WORK  AND  FLAY. 


brings  back  those  contributions  which  make  up 
the  sum  of  human  knowledge.  It  counts  the  ribs 
of  the  mountains,  and  feels  the  pulses  of  the  sea, 
and  traces  the  foot-paths  of  the  stars,  and  calls  the 
animals  of  the  forest  and  the  birds  of  the  air  and 
the  dowers  of  the  field  by  name.  It  summons 
horses  of  fire  and  chariots  of  fire  from  heaven,  and 
makes  them  the  bearers  of  its  thought.  It  phm- 
ders  the  tombs  of  dead  nationalities,  and  weaves 
living  histories  from  the  shreds  it  finds.  It  seeks 
out  and  sets  in  nrder  the  secrets  of  the  soil,  and 
divides  to  every  plant  its  food.  It  builds  and  binds 
into  unity  great  philosophies,  along  which  run  the 
life  and  thought  of  ages.  It  embalms  the  hfe  of 
nations  in  literatures,  in  whose  crypts  are  scattered 
seeds  of  thought  that  only  need  the  light  to  spread 
into  harvests  of  bread  for  living  generations. 

How  wonderful  a being  is  man,  when  viewed  in 
the  light  of  his  achievements!  It  is  in  the  record 
of  these  that  we  find  the  evidence  of  his  power  and 
the  credentials  of  his  glory.  Into  the  results  of 
work  each  generation  pours  its  life;  and  as  these 
results  grow  in  excellence,  with  broader  forms  and 
richer  tints  and  nobler  meanings,  they  become  the 
indexes  of  the  wmid’s  progTess.  We  estimate  the 
life  of  a generation  by  what  it  does;  and  the  re- 
sults of  its  work  stand  out  in  advance  of  its  succes- 
sor, to  show  it  what  it  can  do,  and  to  show  it  what 
it  must  do,  to  reach  a finer  consummation.  Thus 
the  results  of  work  become  the  most  powerful  stim- 
ulus of  the  worker.  They  inspire  emulation;  they 


WORK  AND  PLAY, 


107 


instruct  in  mode  and  style;  they  feed  perennially 
the  springs  of  ambition. 

Great,  however,  as  these  achievements  are,  they 
derive  their  peculiar  significance  from  the  fact  that 
they  are  necessarily  and  forever  less  than  their 
author.  Work  being  the  ordained  means  of  devel- 
opment to  the  worker,  must  always,  by  an  immut- 
able law,  leave  him  higher  than  his  achievement. 
Never  was  a worthy  work  accompHshed,  above 
which  the  worker  did  not  stand  with  the  feehng 
that  by  his  work  ho  had  been  fitted  for  something 
higher.  Every  generation  that  has  stepped  from 
its  sphere  of  labor  into  the  shadowy  beyond,  has 
walked  forth  with  the  results  of  its  work  beneath 
its  feet.  He  who  hath  builded  the  house  hath 
more  honor  than  the  house.  Thus  work,  in  its 
results,  lifts  each  generation  in  the  world’s  progress 
from  step  to  step,  shortening  the  ladder  upon 
which  the  angels  ascend  and  descend,  and  chmb- 
ing  by  ever  brighter  and  broader  gradations  to- 
ward the  ultimate  perfection.  A new  and  more 
glorious  gift  of  power  compensates  for  each  worthy 
expenditure,  so  that  it  is  by  work  that  man  carves 
his  wuy  to  that  measure  of  power  which  wiU  fit 
him  for  his  destiny,  and  leave  him  nearest  God. 

Among  the  results  of  work,  we  shall  find  for  play, 
too,  a compensating  ministry.  Work  wins  the  ap- 
petite for  play,  and  provides  the  multiphed  means 
for  it.  It  buoys  and  mans  a yacht  for  play.  It 
purchases  a horse  for  play,  and  drives  him  before 
its  door,  and  gives  it  the  ribbons.  It  opens  houses 


108 


WORK  AND  PLAY, 


to  the  incoming  of  friends,  and  carpets  floors  for 
them,  and  fills  their  ears  witli  music  and  their 
mouths  with  delicacies.  Play  plays  for  work,  and 
work  works  for  play.  Play  assists  work  by  minis- 
tering to  its  delight,  and  keeping  its  machinery  in 
order,  and  work  supplies  play  with  implements  for 
its  grateful  service. 

There  remains  to  be  presented  another  thought 
relating  to  the  ultimate  results  of  Work  and  Play. 
Development  and  discipline  have  been  seen  to  be 
their  immediate  object.  What  is  the  object  of  the 
development  and  the  discipline?  For  what  pur- 
pose must  you  and  I play  in  boyhood,  and  then 
work  through  a life-time,  bringing  aU  our  powers 
under  the  control  of  will,  bending  our  whole  being 
to  the  accomplishment  of  a pm'pose,  till  every  fac- 
ulty moves  harmoniously  with  every  other  faculty? 
Why  is  man  fitted  by  his  work  to  do  something 
higher  than  his  work,  and  to  lie  down  in  the  dust 
at  last,  capable  of  a greater  deed  than  he  has  ever 
performed?  Why  is  it,  that,  great  as  the  record  of 
man  upon  the  earth  is,  it  must  be  forever  unworthy 
of  man,  and  convey  but  a hint  of  his  power? 

I am  not  a preacher,  nor  is  this  an  occasion  for 
preaching;  but  this  is  a Christian  congregation, 
which  claims  from  me  the  noblest  view  of  this  sub- 
ject— the  key  to  its  whole  meaning.  You  and  J 
believe  that  man  is  immortal,  and  your  knowledge 
of  yourselves  will  readily  bring  you  to  the  admis- 
sion that  an  immortahty  of  rest  must  be,  beyond 
all  conception,  horrible — more  repulsive,  in  fact, 


WORK  AND  FLAT. 


109 


than  an  immortality  of  work.  The  mind  that 
ceases  to  act  without  an  object,  must  forever  feed 
upon  itself.  If  I am  taught  anything  by  the  inti- 
mate association  and  the  mutual  relations  of  work 
and  pla}^  in  this  sphere  of  being,  it  is,  that  a period 
will  arrive  when  they  wiU  be  blended  in  one;  when 
out  of  rectified  conditions,  and  purified  disposi- 
tions, and  rationally  apprehended  schemes  and  ob- 
jects of  good,  impulses  will  rise  to  spur  the  will 
and  rfll  the  faculties  trained  under  it  into  an  eternal 
play  that  'will  be  essential  work,  and  an  eternal 
work  that  'will  be  essential  play. 

Thus  introduced  to  the  object  and  the  meaning 
of  this  development  and  discipline,  what  wondrous 
music  do  the  din  and  discord  of  business  become ! 
How  magnificent  the  thought  that,  running  paral- 
lel, or  intert'wining,  mth  our  own  Hmited  purposes, 
and  even  our  careless  play,  there  is  a limitless  di- 
vine purpose  threading  each  object  and  achieve- 
ment, and  passing  infinitely  on  into  the  unseen! 
Hammer  away,  thou  sturdy  smith,  at  that  bar  of 
iron,  for  thou  art  bravely  forging  thy  own  destiny! 
Weave  on  in  glad  content,  industrious  worker  of 
the  mill,  for  thou  art  weaving  cloth  of  gold,  though 
thou  mark  not  its  lustre!  Plough  and  plant,  and 
rear  and  reap,  ye  tillers  of  the  soil,  for  those  brown 
acres  of  yours  are  pregnant  with  nobler  fruitage 
than  that  which  hung  in  Eden.  Let  Commerce 
fearlessly  send  out  her  ships,  for  there  is  a haven 
where  they  'wiU  arrive  at  last,  with  freighted 
wealth  below,  and  fiying  streamers  above,  and 


110 


WOEK  AND  PLAY. 


jubilant  crews  between!  Working  well  for  the 
minor  good  and  the  chief  good  of  hfe,  and  wisely 
making  play  tributary  to  your  ends,  you  shall  all 
win  your  way  to  the  great  consummation  I have 
indicated,  and  find  in  your  hands  the  golden  key 
that  will  open  for  you  the  riddle  of  your  history. 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


HE  disposition  to  shirk  seems  to  be  constitu- 


tional with  the  human  race.  The  first  re- 
corded act  of  the  primal  pair,  after  they  had  eaten 
the  fatal  fruit,  was  an  attempt  to  shirk  a moral  re- 
sponsibility. The  man  tried  to  shift  the  burden 
of  his  guilt  upon  the  woman,  and  the  woman 
charged  the  serpent  with  being  her  beguiler. 
From  that  day  to  this  their  descendants  have  shown 
that  sinning  and  shirking  are  inseparable  com- 
panions. 

There  is  a prevalent  disposition  in  this  country 
to  shirk  the  hardships  of  useful  and  i^roductive  la- 
bor, and  to  shirk  personal,  social,  and  iDohtical  re- 
sponsibility. Yery  few  men  make  a straight  path 
for  themselves,  dodging  no  duty,  avoiding  no  bur- 
den that  legitimately  belongs  to  them,  and  cheei 
fully  and  manfully  assuming  every  responsibility 
that  Providence  places  in  their  path.  I think  that 
we  shall  find  it  both  interesting  and  profitable  to 
discuss  this  fault  and  faihng  of  mankind,  especially 
as  illustrated  by  American  character  and  history, 


112 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


and  to  say  a few  words  of  tlie  remedy  wliicli  Prov- 
idence prescribes. 

Let  me  begin  with  the  proposition  that  all  man- 
kind are  naturally  lazy.  There  are  probably  son  e 
men  in  the  world  who  love  to  work,  for  work’s 
sake,  as  there  are  some  men  in  the  world  who  love 
tobacco  and  pickled  olives,  having  acquired  a taste 
for  them;  but,  generally,  men  work  because  they 
are  obhged  to,  for  the  procurement  of  the  neces- 
saries of  life,  or  because  they  are  impelled  to  by 
the  wish  for  wealth  or  some  other  desirable  good. 
I do  not  suppose  any  considerable  amount  of  stone- 
fence  was  ever  laid  ‘‘for  the  fun  of  it,”  or  that  the 
boy  lives  who  prefers  raking  after  a cart  to  hying  a 
kite.  Labor  is  embraced  by  the  majority  of  men 
as  a lesser  evil  than  that  from  which  it  purchases 
exemption. 

Now  what  is  labor?  It  is  the  price  we  pay  for 
everything  that  is  not  free  and  common  to  men. 
For  air,  we  pay  no  price.  It  is  with  us  and  about 
us  everywhere.  For  the  water  that  bathes  our 
faces  and  slakes  our  thirst,  we  have  only  to  go 
where  it  is — and  it  is  everywhere — to  find  it  burst- 
ing from  the  ground  in  perennial  springs,  or  leap- 
ing down  cataracts,  or  murmuring  to  itself  in 
brooks,  or  spreading  itself  out  into  rivers,  lakes, 
and  oceans.  Nay,  it  wiU  come  to  us  from  the  sky, 
and  we  can  catch  it  in  our  hands,  if  we  will.  It  is 
possible  that  some  special  disposition  of  air  and 
water  may  cost  labor,  but  both  are  intended  to  be 
without  price;  and  they  are  made  free  because  they 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


113 


are  so  immediately  essential  to  the  preservation  of 
life.  It  will  be  found  also  that  those  articles  of 
food  w^hich  are  absolutely  essential  are  cheap.  A 
few  nuts,  to  be  had  for  the  gathering;  a few  roots, 
to  be  obtained  for  the  digging;  a few  sheep  and 
goats  that  will  take  care  of  themselves,  and  yield 
milk  and  meat  and  peltry — these  cost  but  little  la- 
bor; but  the  moment  we  pass  beyond  the  simplest 
essentials  for  the  preservation  of  animal  life,  we 
must  j)ay  the  fuU  price  in  labor  for  every  article  we 
obtain. 

I say  loe  must  pay:  somebody  must  pay.  A 
bushel  of  wheat  represents  a certain  amount  of  la- 
bor— the  preparation  of  soil  for  the  seed,  the  sow- 
ing, the  covering,  the  reaping,  gathering,  thresh- 
ing, vdnnowing,  and  transportation.  A barrel  of 
flour  represents  a still  greater  amount  of  labor, 
both  in  its  quantity  and  condition.  Every  bushel 
of  wheat  and  every  barrel  of  flour  represents  cer- 
tain processes  of  labor  without  which  it  could 
never  have  been  produced.  So,  every  ton  of  iron 
cost  somebody  a certain  price  in  labor,  -and  an 
ounce  of  gold,  if  it  will  pay  for  the  ton  ©f  iron, 
cost  somebody  just  as  much  labor  as  the  ton  of 
iron  cost. 

All  values  are  based  on  labor — the  labor  they 
originally  cost,  or  the  labor  it  would  cost  to  dupli- 
cate or  reproduce  them.  A necklace  of  diamonds 
will  sell  for  ten  thousand  dollars  because  it  woifld, 
roughly  and  generally  speaking,  cost  ten  thousand 
dollars  to  duphcate  the  gems  and  their  setting, 


lU 


WOBKim  and  shieking. 


drawing  them  from  the  original  stock  of  nature. 
There  are  exceptions  to  this  rule  in  the  lucky  stum- 
bles that  are  made  upon  extraordinary  deposits  of 
the  precious  stones  and  metals;  but,  speaking  in 
the  large  way,  everything  costs  its  value  in  labor. 
California  makes  no  more  money  in  digging  gold 
than  Illinois  makes  in  growing  wheat;  Georgia 
gets  no  richer  in  producing  cotton  than  Massa- 
chusetts does  in  spinning  it.  Nature  is  so  nicely 
adjusted  to  this  basis  of  values,  that  intelligent  la- 
bor thrives  as  weU  on  a mountain  as  in  a vaUey; 
thrives  as  well  on  the  water  as  on  the  land;  gets 
just  as  much  for  its  pains  in  a quarry  of  gTanite  as 
in  a vein  of  gold-bearing  quartz;  and  finds  equal 
profit  in  working  a coal-mine  and  washing  for  dia- 
monds. 

I look  over  my  audience,  and  I see  silks  from 
China,  ribbons  from  Trance,  cloths  from  England 
and  Germany,  brooches  from  Cahfomia,  gloves 
from  the  feet  of  the  Alps — the  work  of  thousands 
of  weavers  and  spinners  and  dyers  and  cunning 
artisans  and  artists — and  all  these  represent  labor. 
All  these  cost  the  labor  of  somebody,  and  the 
money  that  bought  them  cost  the  labor  of  some- 
body. The  money  which  you  gave  for  these  things 
may  not  have  cost  you  anything,  but  it  cost  some- 
body its  value  in  labor.  There  are  some  of  you, 
possibly,  who  have  never  been  obliged  to  labor, 
and  who  have  earned  nothing  that  you  possess;  but 
somebody  has  earned  it.  That  wealth  of  yours 
was  dug  out  of  the  ground,  or  drawn  from  the  sea, 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


115 


by  somebody:  perhaps  it  required  ten  thousand 
somebodies  to  do  it.  You  or  your  ancestors  may 
have  Avon  this  Avealth  at  comparatively  little  cost; 
but  it  all  came  originally  from  the  marroAV  and 
through  the  muscles  of  labor. 

The  fact  that  some  persons  are  rich  proves  that 
the  labor  of  the  Avorld  is  more  than  sufficient  for 
the  Avants  of  the  Av^orld.  That  everybody  lives,  and 
that  some  have  Avealth  Avho  produce  nothing,  shoAvs 
that  there  are  various  Avays  of  securing  the  results 
of  productive  labor  Avithout  engaging  in  that  la- 
bor. There  is  a large  number  of  men  and  A\^omen 
in  the  Avorld  Avho  live  upon  the  labor  of  others — a 
large  number  besides  those  avIio  are  naturally  or 
necessarily  dependent.  Many  secure  a share  of 
this  surplus  of  production  by  entirely  legitimate 
means.  They  take  a just  contribution  from  it  as  it 
passes  through  their  hands  in  various  commercial 
exchanges.  They  fill  some  office  or  perform  some 
serAuce  for  the  producers,  and  secure  a proper  pay- 
ment for  their  Avork;  but  the  great  strife  of  the 
Avoiid  is  to  see  hoAv  much  of  this  labor  of  produc- 
tion can  be  shirked,  and  hoAV  great  an  amount  of 
its  results  can  be  secured  Avithout  paying  their 
legitimate  price.  Every  employment  that  gives 
heaAy  pay  for  light  Av^ork,  every  scheme  of  gain 
that  promises  large  reAvards  for  little  labor,  every 
profession,  trade,  or  calhng,  that  secures  the  re- 
sults of  productive  toil  Avithout  paying  their  full 
price,  is  filled  to  overfloANdng,  in  every  community. 

The  great  centres  of  commercial  exchange  are 


116 


WOEKINQ  AND  SHIRKING. 


points  of  attraction  for  the  shirks  of  the  world. 
They  stand  wherever  the  producers  and  consumers 
meet,  ready  to  grasp  some  portion  of  the  profits  of 
trade — men  who  five  by  their  wits — men  who  min- 
ister to  the  vices  of  wealth  for  a consideration — 
men  who  are  content  to  be  the  well-dressed  slaves 
of  capital — men  who  speculate  in  the  necessaries  of 
life,  though  thousands  starve — men  who  gamble  in 
stocks  and  invent  fancy  schemes  of  plunder — knaves 
who  eat  the  flesh  and  drink  the  blood  of  needle- 
women— Peter  Funks,  beggars,  thieves — men  -who 
prefer  to  simper  and  smirk  behind  a counter  to 
doing  a man’s  work  behind  a plough — ^women  who 
sell  their  bodies  and  their  souls  for  luxury  and  ease 
— suckers  and  swindlers  and  supernumeraries  and 
sinners  generally. 

Nor  are  these  all  the  shirks  of  the  city.  If  we 
could  loiow  the  real  motive  that  brings  the  reput- 
able people  of  a city  together,  we  should,  very 
generally,  find  it  to  be  the  desire  to  win  wealth 
without  producing  it,  and  without  paying  in  labor 
the  full  price  for  it.  The  able-bodied  farmer’s 
boy  leaves  the  hoe  for  the  yard-stick  to  save  his 
back  from  labor;  and  there  are  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  men  in  our  larger  cities  who  have  rehn- 
quished  manly  employment,  manly  aims  and  ambi- 
tions, and  manly  independence,  for  the  sole  pur- 
pose of  securing  the  results  of  the  labor  of  others 
at  a cheap  rate.  I do  not  say  that  they  accomplish 
their  object,  for  there  is  great  competition  in  shirk- 
ing, and  pretty  hard  work  is  made  of  it  sometimes, 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


117 


I am  talking  simply  of  tlieir  motive  and  their  aim. 
You  ^yill  not  understand  me  to  have  any  refer- 
ence to  the  legitimate  commerce  and  the  useful 
professions  and  callings  which  engage  large  and 
honoralile  numbers  in  every  city,  when  I say  that 
the  shirks  of  the  mty  are  very  great  curses  of  the 
countiy.  They  have  contrived  to  make  labor  dis- 
reiDutable,  or,  at  least,  unfashionable.  They 
have  erected  a false  standard  of  respectability. 
They  have  helped  to  estabhsh  the  opinion  that  the 
laborer — the  producer  and  the  artificer  of  the 
wealth  of  the  nation — cannot  possibly  be  a gentle- 
man, and  that  the  only  gentle  pursuits  are  those  of 
trade  and  commerce,  and  the  professions  and  call- 
ings which  more  immediately  serve  them.  It  is  in 
these  false  ideas — offspring  of  pretentious  laziness 
— that  American  productive  labor  is  educated ; and 
it  is  sad  to  think  how  much  of  it  grows  up  to 
despise  itself,  and  to  look  upon  its  lot  as  equally 
severe  and  degi*ading.  The  city  is  the  beautiful 
and  haughty  Estella  that  tells  poor  Pip  that  his 
hands  are  coarse,  and  poor  Pip  gets  ashamed  of 
his  hands,  and  feels  very  sadly  about  himself. 

But  it  is  not  in  ideas  alone  that  the  shirking 
classes  of  the  city  curse  the  country.  Let  us  look 
for  a moment  at  that  paradise  of  shirks,  the  stock- 
exchange — a place  where  not  the  first  particle  of 
wealth  ever  was  produced  or  ever  will  be  produced; 
where  great  games  of  chance  are  played  in  a 
strictly  legal  and  a superlatively  immoral  way; 
where  men  combine  to  break  down  the  credit  of 


118 


WOBKim  AND  SHIBKim. 


worthy  corporations,  conspire  to  give  a fictitious 
value  to  that  which  is  valueless,  and  make  a busi- 
ness of  cheating  each  other  and  swindling  the 
world.  I can  perceive  no  difference  between  a 
professional  gambler  in  stocks  and  any  other  pro- 
fessional gambler.  Both  are  men  who  produce 
nothing;  who  play  at  games  of  skill  and  hazard  for 
money;  who  never  win  a dollar  that  does  not  leave 
some  other  man  poorer;  and  who  strive  to  over- 
reach each  other,  and  burn  the  fingers  of  unsus- 
picious outsiders.  Professional  speculating  in 
stocks  is  organized  and  instituted  shirking.  Sin, 
we  are  told,  “when  it  is  finished  bringeth  forth 
death.”  Shirking,  in  its  ultimate  development, 
bringing  forth  the  stock-exchange. 

Think  of  the  infiuence  of  this  institution  upon 
the  country.  To  leave  out  of  account  the  tempta- 
tions it  holds  out  to  those  who  are  greedy  for  sud- 
den wealth,  or  to  those  v/ho  are  in  desperate  cir- 
cumstances, think  of  the  false  standard  of  values 
it  sets  before  the  country.  Think  how  the  trade, 
the  commercial  confidence,  and  the  business  enter- 
prise of  the  nation  rise  and  fall  with  the  varying 
influence  of  the  bulls  and  the  bears  in  the  stock- 
market,  while  the  real  value  of  the  fluctuating 
stocks  may  not  materially  change  from  one  year  to 
another.  A panic  in  the  stock-market,  produced 
by  professional  speculators,  is  felt  from  one  end  of 
the  country  to  the  other;  and  all  this  disturbance 
is  caused  that  a set  of  professional  shirks  may 
make  an  opportunity  to  steal  a dollar  out  of  a rail- 


WOBKING  AND  SHIRKING, 


119 


way-bond,  or  filch  a dirty  dime  from  an  honest 
man’s  share  of  bank-stock.  Would  it  not  be,  in- 
deed, a blessing  to  the  country  if  this  legal  gam- 
bhng-shop  were  shut  up?  Would  it  not  be  better, 
on  the  whole,  that  the  men  who  get  their  Livings 
there  should  take  to  similar  pursuits  in  private, 
where  they  use  a thicker  variety  of  paper — ^paste- 
board, in  fact — and  where  they  have  only  four 
knaves  in  a pack?  I think  so. 

Perhaps  the  most  humiliating  exhibition  which 
the  shirks  make  of  themselves  is  on  the  occasion  of 
a change  in  the  national  administration.  A hundred 
dollars  in  money  (borrowed),  three  clean  shirts,  a 
long  petition,  an  anxious  face,  and  a carpet-bag, 
form  the  outfit  of  something  less  than  a hundred 
thousand  able-bodied  men  who  make  a pilgrimage 
to  Washington  eveiy  four  years.  And  what  do 
these  men  want?  They  want  a clerkship,  a col- 
lectorship,  a postmastership — any  sort  of  a ship 
that  will  save  them  the  trouble  of  rowing,  and  that 
will  furnish  them  with  pay  and  rations.  The  ma- 
jority of  these  men  are  shirks,  who  wish  to  be  re- 
leased from  the  necessity  of  productive  and  useful 
industry.  They  swarm  around  the  centres  of  pat- 
ronage hke  bees  around  a sugar-cask,  every  one 
after  something  sweet  which  others  have  collected. 
Alas!  let  me  confess  that  the  shirks  are  not  all  in 
the  city.  Eip  Van  Winkle  hved  in  a country- vil- 
lage under  the  Catskills,  and  we  are  told  by  Mr. 
Irving  that  “ the  great  error  in  Rip’s  composition 
was  an  insuperable  aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profit- 


120 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING, 


able  labor.”  There  is  more  than  one  Eip  Yar. 
Winkle  in  every  American  village;  but  instead  of 
decently  lying  down  in  the  held,  and  sleeping  for 
twenty  years,  he  prefers  to  take  a nap  equally  long 
in  a government-office,  and  waking  up  with  better 
clothes  on,  instead  of  worse. 

The  genuine  shirk,  wherever  he  lives,  has  no 
honor,  no  conscience,  and  no  patriotism.  In  the 
nation’s  hour  of  trial,  when  everything  good  in  an 
American’s  nature  was  appealed  to,  he  clothed  our 
troops  with  shoddy,  and  cheated  them  in  their  ra- 
tions, and  took  advantage  of  his  country’s  need  to 
fill  his  coffers,  every  dollar  of  which  must  be 
patiently  v/orked  out  by  his  fellow-citizens.  Cer- 
tainly a swindling  government  contractor,  in  a 
time  of  national  peril,  deserves  the  most  infamous 
place  among  the  shirks  and  scoundrels  of  the 
world. 

Let  us  look  at  some  of  the  more  obvious  and 
ordinary  results  of  shirking.  All  kinds  of  business 
that  promise  large  results  at  little  cost  are  overdone. 
The  country  drives  straight  into  financial  wreck  at 
brief,  irregular  periods,  simply  because  there  are 
too  many  men  trying  to  get  a living  without  pro- 
ducing anything.  If  we  look  over  the  hst  of  our 
acquaintances,,  we  shall  be  astonished  to  see  how 
large  a number  of  disappomted  men  it  embraces, 
and  how  large  a proportion  of  this  number  is  made 
up  of  those  who  tried  to  win  wealth  cheaply. 
Generally,  disappointed  and  broken-down  men  are 
those  who  have  failed  in  trade,  or  have  run  through 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


121 


some  fancy  scheme  of  gain,  or,  to  use  an  expres- 
sive Yankee  phrase,  have  ‘‘fitted  out”  in  a calling 
or  profession  which  was  intended  to  draw  money 
in  some  way  from  the  producing  and  commercial 
interests. 

I repeat,  that  all  kinds  of  business  that  promise 
large  results  at  httle  cost  are  overdone.  The  haste 
to  get  rich — the  deshre  to  acquire  sudden  wealth 
vdthout  being  obhged  to  pay  in  labor  the  legiti- 
mate i3rice  for  it — is  the  piincipal  cause  of  the 
financial  calamities  that  at  brief  intervals  have  be- 
fallen our  country  during  the  last  fifty  years.  It  is 
not  that  we  have  not  been  a nation  of  workers. 
To  get  rich  rapidly,  we  have  been  willing  to  Tvork 
intensely  and  immensely;  but  we  have  been  shirks 
all  the  while — striving  to  get  out  of  our  work  ten, 
fifty,  or  a hundred  times  more  than  it  has  been 
worth.  America  can  never  become  a truly  haj)py, 
stable,  and  rehable  nation,  until  its  riews  of  life 
become  more  sober,  and  a much  larger  proportion 
of  its  people  become  willing,  by  iDatient,  manly  la- 
bor in  the  useful  or  productive  arts  of  life,  to  earn 
every  dollar  they  receive. 

I ought  to  add  to  all  this,  that  much  of  the  fail- 
ure in  commercial  and  professional  life  is  due  to  a 
lack  of  preparation  for  it;  and  this  neglect  of  prep- 
aration for  success  is  a part  of  the  miiversal  system 
of  shirking.  Lawyers  are  made  in  a day.  Physi- 
cians there  are  in  abundance  who  are  as  innocent 
of  any  knowledge  of  science  as  they  were  when 
they  were  boni.  Men  enter  the  various  avenues  of 


122 


WORKim  AND  SHIRKING. 


trade  without  a decent  familiarity  with  the  forms 
of  business,  and  without  any  business  habits  at  all. 
Trades  are  adopted,  not  acquired — adopted  at  the 
suggestion  of  a natural  knack.  Indeed,  I beheve 
that  the  habit  of  shirking  the  work  of  thorough 
preparation  for  the  business  of  life  is  well-nigh 
universal  in  the  country.  Long  periods  of  train- 
ing for  the  professions,  and  patiently  ]3ursued  ap- 
prenticeships to  the  arts  and  trades,  are  almost  un- 
known. In  short,  we  choose  a pursuit  which  will 
enable  us  to  shirk  labor  as  far  as  possible,  and  then 
shirk  the  necessary  preparation  to  win  success  in  it. 
When  a boy  changes  his  roundabout  for  a coat,  he 
is  ready  to  “stick  out  his  shingle,”  as  he  calls  it, 
and  the  shingle  usually  “sticks  out”  a good  deal 
longer  than  he  does. 

It  is  among  men  who  try  to  get  a living  by  some 
shift  or  trick  of  laziness  that  we  hear  the  famihar 
words:  “the  world  owes  me  a hving.”  A loafer 
who  never  did  a useful  thing  in  his  life;  who 
dresses  at  the  expense  of  the  tailor,  and  drinks  at 
the  cost  of  his  friends,  always  insists  that  “the 
world  owes  him  a living,”  and  declares  his  inten- 
tion to  secure  the  debt.  I should  like  to  know 
how  it  is  that  a man  who  owes  the  world  for  every 
mouthful  he  ever  ate  and  every  garment  he  ever  put 
on,  should  be  so  heavy  a creditor  in  account  with 
the  world.  The  loafer  lies  about  it.  The  world 
owes  him  nothing  but  a very  rough  coffin,  and  a 
retired  and  otherwise  useless  place  to  put  it  in. 

The  world  owes  a living  to  those  who  are  not 


W OB  KING  AND  SHIRKING. 


123 


able  to  earn  one — to  chilcLren,  to  the  sick,  to  the 
disabled  and  the  aged — to  all  who  in  the  course  of 
nature  or  by  force  of  circumstances  are  dependent : 
and  it  was  mainly  for  the  supply  of  the  wants  of 
these  that  men  were  endowed  with  the  power  to 
produce  more  than  enough  for  themselves.  To  a 
genuine  shu’k  the  world  owes  nothing;  and  when 
he  tells  me  with  a whine  that  the  world  owes  him 
a hving,  I am  assured  that  he  has  the  disposition 
of  a highway-robber,  and  lacks  only  his  courage 
and  his  enterprise. 

I pass  now  to  the  consideration  of  the  disposi- 
tion to  shirk  special  duties  of  life;  and  first,  the 
duty  of  personal  self-assertion.  We  live  in  a coun- 
try where,  more  than  in  any  other,  public  oijinion 
domineers  over  the  minds  of  men.  Americans 
generally  dread  singularity  in  sentiments  and 
opinions  as  much  as  they  do  in  dress;  so  that  if 
they  cannot  quite  reflect  the  changing  phases  of 
the  pubhc  mind,  they  modify  their  moral  clothing 
suificiently  to  avoid  attracting  the  attention  of  the 
boys.  . We  dread  to  appear  in  the  street  with  a hat 
or  a coat  five  years  old;  and  we  dread  just  as  much 
to  appear  in  an  oxDinion  which  has  gone  out  of 
fashion. 

Sacred  convictions,  deliberately  formed  opinions, 
long-cherished  sentiments,  are  clipped  and  round- 
ed and  shortened  in,  or  pieced  out  in  accordance 
with  the  popular  style,  so  that  we  may  be  enabled 
to  pass  for  men  who  are  up  with  the  times.  The 
men  are  comparatively  few  who  are  willing  to  take 


124 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


the  responsibility  of  the  full  assertion  of  their  per- 
sonaiity;  who  will  stand  or  fall  by  their  convictions, 
sentiments,  and  opinions;  who  will  insist  on  being 
themselves,  even  when  that  is  equivalent  to  being 
singular.  This  despotic  pubhc  ojpinion,  which, 
without  doubt,  has  a legitimate  limited  field  of  in- 
fluence, shapes  our  whole  national  life  and  charac- 
ter, through  its  influence  upon  the  indmdual. 
None  escape  this  modifying  power,  though  some 
feel  it  and  are  moulded  by  it  less  than  others. 

I think  you  will  all  be  able  to  call  to  mind  some 
man  of  your  acquaintance  who  will  sufficiently 
serve  to  illustrate  by  his  flfe  and  character  this 
prevalent  disposition  to  shirk  self-assertion.  Per- 
haps in  early  life  he  had  a few  opinions,  and  con- 
ducted his  life  after  a certain  pohcy;  but  some 
damaging  collision — a httle  infirmity  of  will — a lit- 
tle too  large  a love  of  approbation,  and  a good  deal 
of  moral  cowardice,  have  led  him  to  throw  over- 
board everything  he  can  ceffi  his  own;  and  he  has 
become  the  victim  and  sport  of  the  sea  of  person- 
alities around  him.  He  has  a great  hoiTor  of  a 
collision,  and  will  hear  his  most  sacred  sentiments 
attacked  vithout  reply.  He  shirks  all  conflict  of 
opinions  as  he  would  shun  a j>ersonal  street-fight. 
Whenever  he  ventures  to  j)ush  out  any  manifesta- 
tion of  his  personality  wdiich  hits  anything,  or 
meets  a repulse,  he  takes  it  back  as  quickly  as  he 
would  a burnt  finger.  He  is  careful  to  agi*ee  with 
every  man  who  carries  a positive  character;  and  it 
is  astonishing  to  see  the  variety  of  people  he  can 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


125 


agree  with.  He  is  like  arrow-root,  or  certain 
widely-advertised  patent  medicines  that  are  war- 
ranted to  ‘‘agree  with  all  temperaments  and  the 
most  dehcate  constitutions.”  One  always  knows 
where  to  find  such  a man  as  this;  and  so  does  one’s 
neighbor.  In  a time  of  quiet,  he  will  be  with  you, 
and  with  anybody  ^vho  happens  to  be  near  him; 
but  in  a time  of  disturbance,  when  opinions  are- 
clashing  and  a great  moral  conflict  is  in  progress, 
the  fence  is  his  invariable  resort.  He  takes  to  a 
fence  as  naturally  at  every  sign  of  tumult  and 
struggle  as  a squirrel  takes  to  a tree  when  the  dogs 
are  out.  We  have  in  every  community  a consider- 
able number  of  men  who  have  spent  aU  their  years 
of  discretion  upon  the  fence.  Such  men  always 
affect  candor  and  dignity  and  freedom  from  preju- 
dice and  passion,  but  they  are  invariably  shirks 
and  cowards. 

Such  men  as  these  occui3y  an  extreme,  it  is  true; 
but  how  large  is  the  multitude  who  are  only  less 
despicable  than  they!  How  many  are  there  who 
go  dodging  through  life, — shunning  a collision 
here  for  the  sake  of  peace,  sacrificing  a sentiment 
there  rather  than  be  guilty  of  singularity,  shirking 
the  assertion  of  their  sentiments,  convictions,  and 
opinions,  when  manhood  demands  their  assertion, 
allowing  themselves  to  be  hampered  and  paralyzed 
in  every  putting-forth  of  their  j)ersonahty,  and 
clipped  and  rubbed  and  rounded  and  pohshed, 
until  they  become  as  thin  and  smooth  and  scent- 


126 


WOliKim  AND  SIllRKINQ. 


less  as  an  old  cake  of  soap  in  a public  bathing- 
room. 

Going  nniformly  with  one’s  sect  in  religion,  with 
one’s  party  in  pohtics,  or  with  one’s  clique  in  so- 
cial hfe,  is  only  less  mean  than  occupying  the 
fence.  A man  who  buries  his  personality  in  a sect 
or  party  because  he  is  afraid  or  ashamed  to  stand 
alone,  is  quite  as  much  a coward  as  he  who  en- 
deavors to  preserve  neutrality.  A bully  with  back- 
ers is  quite  likely  to  be  the  poltroon  of  his  com- 
pany, and  quite  likely  to  be  a bully  because  he  is 
conscious  of  his  cowardice,  and  wishes  to  prevent 
other  people  from  finding  him  out. 

We  are  every  day  sacrificing  something  for 
peace.  Well,  peace  is  good,  or  may  be  good. 
Peace  is  certainly  desirable.  If  daily  peace  with 
all  mankind  can  be  purchased  by  the  sacrifice  of 
unimportant  things,  by  the  surrender  of  a few  per- 
sonal notions,  by  a little  inconvenience  that  affects 
only  ourselves,  very  well.  But  peace  purchased  by 
running  away;  peace  purchased  by  avoiding  con- 
flicts upon  questions  of  vital  importance;  peace 
purchased  by  yielding  a point  of  honor  or  sacrific- 
ing a principle;  peace  purchased  by  silent  acquies- 
cence in  wrong,  is  not  very  well.  Such  peace  is 
the  most  insidious  and  deadly  poison  that  assails 
American  manhood.  It  is  for  this  peace  that  a 
certain  class  has  parted  with  its  pohtical  opinions. 
It  is  for  this  peace  that  men  have  practically  denied 
their  religion.  It  is  for  this  peace  that  numbers 
have  failed  to  set  themselves  against  great  evils 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


127 


that  threaten  their  neighbors,  themselves,  and 
their  children.  It  was  for  this  peace  that  American 
nationality  was  sold  out  by  cowardly  politicians 
and  cowardly  people.  Shirking  self-assertion  and 
personal  responsibility  for  the  sake  of  personal 
peace — what  else  was  it  that  led  patriotism  to  re- 
tire from  year  to  year  before  the  on-coming  flood 
of  treason,  until  even  in  the  capital  of  the  nation 
there  was  not  an  ark-load  of  loyalty  left?  Ah!  curs- 
ed peace — ah!  fatal  peace,  that  is  purchased  by  the 
surrender  of  personal  manhood! 

We  are  every  day  sacrificing  something  for  pop- 
ularity. WeU,  popularity  may  be  very  good,  but 
it  is  not  the  best  good,  and  it  can  be  purchased  at 
far  too  high  a iDi’ice.  Popularity  that  is  secured  by 
meanly  withdrawing  our  own  opinions  to  give 
place  to  the  opinions  of  others,  or  by  refusing  to 
give  voice  to  solemn  convictions,  or  by  ignoring  a 
popular  vice  or  giving  countenance  to  a popular 
wrong,  is  7ioi  good.  It  is  the  basest  possession  which 
human  meanness  can  win.  A man  who  only  asserts 
so  much  of  that  which  is  in  him  as  will  find  favor 
with  those  among  whom  he  has  his  daily  life,  and 
who  withholds  all  that  will  wound  their  vanity  and 
condemn  their  selfishness  and  clash  with  their 
principles  and  prejudices,  has  no  more  manhood 
in  him  than  there  is  in  a spaniel,  and  is  certainly 
one  of  the  most  contemptible  shirks  the  world  con- 
tains. 

Of  course,  I would  not  be  understood  to  advo- 
cate the  idea  that  every  man’s  personality  should 


128 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING, 


so  stand  out  that  OTery  other  man’s  personality 
shall  run  against  it.  I do  not  advocate  the  gratu- 
itous obtrusion  of  one’s  opinions,  sentiments,  and 
convictions  upon  the  world,  or  seeking  a collision 
or  a conflict  wherever  one  may  be  possible.  I 
simply  maintain  that  for  no  mean  consideration, 
like  a cowardly  desire  for  peace  or  a childish  greed 
for  praise  or  popularity,  shall  a man  refrain,  on 
every  just  occasion,  from  asserting  himself  and  all 
there  is  in  him.  I shall  speak  next  of  the  disposi- 
tion to  shirk  the  duties  of  social  life.  I will  lead 
you  to  my  lesson  in  this  department  of  my  subject 
through  an  illustration.  In  our  New  England  Con- 
gregationalism, the  parish  or  society  is  independent 
in  certain  very  important  respects  of  the  church, 
and  has  its  own  peculiar  machinery.  The  parish 
raises  the  money,  makes  the  appropriations,  and 
does  all  the  business.  Now,  if  you  will  get  inside 
of  this  organization,  and  look  about  you,  you  will 
find  that  its  responsibility  and  its  work  are  upon 
the  shoulders  of  a very  small  number  of  persons, 
and  that  by  far  the  larger  number  have  no  more 
interest  in  the  affairs  of  the  parish  than  they  would 
have  in  the  management  of  a theatre  which  they 
might  occasionally  visit.  The  majority  of  those 
who  attend  church  look  upon  the  minister  and  the 
deacons  and  the  parish  committee  as  a sort  of  cor- 
poration whose  business  they  have  no  interest  in 
and  no  responsibility  for.  I have  sometimes 
thought  that  they  suspected  there  was  an  annual 
dividend  of  the  profits  of  running  the  machine 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


129 


wliicli  those  who  handled  the  crank  monoiDohzed. 
They  hke  a pew;  and,  if  they  pay  for  it,  they 
imagine  that  their  duty  ends  there.  They  are 
patrons  of  the  institution;  and  if  they  do  not  like 
it  they  liire  a pew  somewhere  else.  Some  of  them 
apparently  suppose  that  they  place  a parish  under 
obligation  to  them  by  pm’chasing  the  gospel  at  its 
particular  counter. 

The  idea  that  every  man  who  attends  a church 
should  have  just  as  much  interest  in  it  and  just  as 
much  responsibility  for  it — means,  brains,  and 
piety  being  equal — as  any  other  man,  they  do  not 
apprehend  at  all.  The  fact  that  the  support  and 
the  responsibihty  of  a church  rest  upon  all  alike, 
and  that  the  man  who  is  willing  to  enjoy  the  priv- 
ileges of  a church  without  bearing  his  proportion 
of  its  burdens  is  a shirk,  has  never  come  within 
the  range  of  their  conception.  I suppose  this  audi- 
ence is  made  up  of  those  who  do  their  duty  in  the 
parishes  to  which  they  belong, — and  those  who  do 
not;  and  if  it  should  be  like  audiences  that  I am 
best  acquainted  with,  the  latter  outnumber  the 
former  ten  to  one. 

In  general  society  we  find  matters  much  in  the 
same  way.  Society  differs  from  the  parish,  how 
ever,  in  that  it  has  no  formal  organization,  no  in- 
stituted machinery,  no  sittings  with  definite  ap- 
praisements, and  no  written  articles  of  constitution. 
Society  is,  in  the  looser  signification  of  the  word, 
conventional.  Men  can  enjoy  at  least  a ]portion  of 
its  privileges — and  many  do  enjoy  them — without 


130 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING, 


paying  anything  for  them,  or  without  paying  the 
full  price  for  them. 

Society,  like  the  j^arish,  has  its  bm’dens;  and 
these  burdens  are  usually  borne  by  a few.  We  say 
of  one  man  that  he  is  public  spirited,  and  of  an- 
other that  he  is  not  public  spirited.  We  mean 
that  one  is  willing  to  assume  his  portion  of  the 
duties  and  burdens  of  society,  or  of  the  general 
pubhc,  and  that  the  other  is  not.  If  some  pubHc 
enterprise  is  proposed  which  naturally  appeals  to 
the  generosity  of  men  as  citizens — lovers  of  the 
general  good — members  of  society — then  Ave  see 
who  is  ready  to  bear  liis  proportion  of  the  burdens 
of  society,  and  who  is  disposed  to  shirk  them. 
We  shall  find,  I am  sorry  to  believe,  that  the  ma- 
jority of  men  shirk  the  pecimiaiy  burdens  of  society, 
and  yet  are  quite  willing  to  share  in  the  results  of 
the  sacrifices  of  others.  If  a park  is  to  be  laid  out, 
or  a thousand  shade-trees  are  to  be  planted,  or  a 
pubhc  library  is  to  be  estabhshed,  or  anything  is 
to  be  done  for  the  general  good,  which  must  be 
done  voluntarily,  by  men  acting  as  citizens — as 
members  of  society — we  shall  find  that  a few  will 
contribute  generously,  and  that  the  many  will  con- 
tribute niggardly,  and  always  among  these  many, 
the  miserly  rich.  The  shirking  multitude  are  quite 
willing  to  believe  that  what  ought  to  be  done  Avill 
be  done  by  somebody,  and  quite  ready  to  be  pen- 
sioners upon  the  bounty  of  their  betters,  Avith  the 
privilege  of  abusing  them.  Most  men  do  what 
they  are  obhged  by  law  to  do,  and  no  more ; and 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


131 


we  can  ascertain  liow  Y/illingly  they  do  even  this 
by  inquiring  of  the  assessors  and  collectors  of 
taxes. 

In  a restricted  sense,  ‘‘  society  ” is  that  indefinite 
number  of  individuals  and  famihes  with  which 
each  person  is  brought  into  intimate  relation.  The 
men  and  women  among  whom  I find  myself  in  so- 
cial assemblages,  who  frequent  my  house,  who 
form  the  circle  next  to  that  which  embraces  my 
family-hfe,  are  my  “society.”  This  circle  will  be 
larger  or  smaller,  better  or  poorer,  according  to 
my  social  value;  and  my  social  value  will  depend 
upon  what  I can  give  and  what  I do  give  for  what 
I receive.  If  I give  a great  deal  more  than  I re- 
ceive, that  ^vill  make  me  a social  leader,  or,  in  time, 
lift  me  into  community  with  a higher  grade  than 
that  in  which  I move.  If  I give  less  than  I receive 
— though  I give  all  I can — ^that  will  make  me  so- 
cially subordinate,  or  translate  me  to  a grade  in 
which  the  social  requirements  are  less. 

We  find  a very  large  number  of  men  and  women 
who  are  not  willing  to  remain  in  the  social  circle  in 
which  the  circumstances  and  the  natural  affinities 
and  proprieties  of  their  hfe  have  placed  them. 
They  have  an  idea  that  their  social  value  is  not  de- 
termined by  what  they  have  to  give  to  society,  but 
rather  by  what  society  gives  to  them.  They  be- 
heve  that  if  they  can  set  their  feet  within  some  cir- 
cle that  is  nominally  above  them — into  that  charm- 
ing sphere  which  Our  Best  Society  calls  “ om-  best 
society” — their  brass  will  immediately  be  trans- 


132 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


muted  into  gold.  Let  us  see  wliat  our  best  society, 
as  Our  Best  Society  calls  it,  is.  There  are  three 
elements  that  constitute  it,  and  that  we  may  re- 
member them  the  more  readily,  they  shall  all  be- 
gin with  a B,  Yiz:  Breeding,  Brains,  and  Bullion 
These  three  elements  are  rarely  or  never  in  equi- 
poise, but  they  mingle  in  different  proportions  in 
different  places,  according  to  circumstances.  In  a 
town  where  there  is  a considerable  number  of  hon- 
orable old  famihes,  Breeding  usually  takes  the  lead, 
and  gives  the  law-  In  a town  where  there  is  no 
pretension  to  hereditary  respectability,  and  there 
is  comparatively  little  wealth.  Brains  will  be  in  the 
ascendant,  and  men  and  women  of  culture  and  gen- 
tle manners  will  be  the  leaders.  When  Breeding 
and  Brains  are  lacking.  Bullion  will  give  the  law  to 
society;  and  those  who  have  the  reputation  of 
wealth  and  the  habit  of  ostentatious  display  will 
hold  the  weight  of  social  influence.  These  three 
elements  combine,  as  I have  said,  in  various  pro- 
portions, to  make  what  Our  Best  Society  is  pleased 
to  denominate  our  best  society — that  cffcle  to 
which  the  socially  ambitious  always  aspire. 

Now  if  there  are  those  before  me  who  stand  on 
the  outside  of  this  charming  and  charmed  circle, 
looking  longingly  into  the  inclosure,  let  me  put 
this  single  question  to  them:  “What  will  you  give 
to  go  in?”  What  Our  Best  Society  is  pleased  to 
call  our  best  society,  is  not  so  unreasonable  or  so 
difficult  as  you  may  suppose.  It  simply  demands 
that  you  take  notice  of  its  dominant  ideas,  and  pay 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


133 


for  its  privileges  in  tlie  current  coin.  How  mucli 
old  and  honorable  blood  can  you  bring  to  add  to 
its  stock  of  respectability?  If  you  have  good 
blood,  it  is  not  so  much  matter  about  Brains,  pro- 
vided that  your  pedigree  is  so  unquestionable  that 
BulHon  will  lend  you  money.  If  you  have  plenty 
of  BuUion,  and  will  use  it  in  the  entertainment  of 
oiu’  best  society,  you  can  get  along  quite  well  with- 
out either  Brains  or  Breeding;  but  Breeding, 
Brains,  or  Bullion  you  must  have,  or  you  cannot 
go  in.  TeU  me : have  you  a great  family-name,  or 
wit  or  learning,  and  the  power  to  make  exhibition 
of  them  in  conversation?  or  excellent  manners?  or 
a gTeat  house  and  splendid  equipage  and  a hospit- 
able table,  with  which  to  pay  for  the  privilege  of 
entering  this  society?  Can  3^ou,  and  will  you,  pay 
the  price  of  admission  in  the  current  coin,  or  do 
you  wish  to  become  one  of  the  pensioners  and 
bores  of  this  society?  Are  you  willing  and  ready 
to  pay  the  price  and  assume  the  duties  of  a high 
social  position,  or  do  you  wish  to  enjoy  its  plea- 
sures and  advantages  and  shirk  all  its  responsibili- 
ties?— to  be  patronized  and  tolerated  as  people  who 
give  nothing  for  what  they  receive? 

I suppose  there  are  multitudes  of  people,  whose 
great  desire  and  anxiety  relate  to  getting  into  cer- 
tain society  for  the  fancied  or  real  privileges  of 
which  they  have  nothing  to  offer;  v/ho  do  not 
dream  of  being  anything  but  beneficiaries;  and 
who  look  upon  good  society  as  a sort  of  charitable 
soup-concern  for  social  mendicants,  sui)ported  by 


134 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


people  who  have  nothing  to  do,  and  unlimited 
means  to  do  it  with. 

There  is  a great  deal  of  fault-finding  with  that 
very  nebulous  entity  which  we  call  society;  but  if 
we  examine  carefully,  we  shall  find  that  it  is  uni- 
formly the  shirks  who  make  most  complaint.  I 
never  heard  a man  who  faithfully  and  cordially 
performed  aU  his  social  duties  complain  of  society, 
and  so  society,  like  the  parish,  is  carried  on  by  the 
few,  while  the  masses  of  men  do  not  regard  them- 
selves as  having  any  social  responsibilities  what- 
ever. They  are  shirks,  who  are  willing  to  receive 
aU  that  society  has  to  bestow — shirks  who  fold  their 
hands  and  whine  because  society  neglects  them — 
shirks,  who  never  perform  a social  duty,  or  feel 
that  a particle  of  social  responsibihty  is  upon 
them. 

I shall  notice  in  particular  but  one  more  variety 
of  shirking  of  which  Americans  are  pecuharly  » 
guilty,  and  this  is  political  shirking — perhaps  the 
most  prevalent  and  mischievous  of  all,  because  it 
strikes  at  the  very  root  of  the  state,  and  of  all  in- 
dividual and  social  weU-being.  Social  shirking 
does  not  damage  good  society  or  injure  its  quahty, 
it  only  makes  it  smaller.  The  better  elements  of 
society  combine  by  natural  and  conditional  affin- 
ities, and  the  shirks  only  faU  back  into  compara- 
tively harmless  disorganization.  Pohtical  shirking, 
on  the  other  hand,  instead  of  leaving  pohtical  af- 
fairs in  good  hands,  invariably  leaves  them  in  bad 
hands;  for  it  is  the  more  virtuous  constituents  of 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


135 


political  communities,  and  not  the  vicious,  that 
shirk  their  pohtical  responsibihties.  I should  rath- 
er say,  perhaps,  that  had  men  seize  the  opportunity 
which  the  neghgence  of  good  men  affords  them, 
to  manage  pohtical  affairs  for  their  own  selfish  ad- 
vantage. 

Under  the  American  system  of  self-government 
— at  whose  ballot-box  ah  social  and  individual  dis- 
tinctions are  wiped  away — it  is  astonishing  to  see 
how  many  there  are  who  do  not  feel  that  they  have 
the  shghtest  pohtical  responsibility.  They  come 
out  to  the  elections,  perhaps,  because  their  party- 
leaders  desire  them  to  come  out,  or  because  their 
party-feelings  urge  them  to  come  out,  or  because 
they  dehglit  in  the  excitement  of  an  election,  or, 
possibly,  in  some  rare  and  remarkable  instances, 
because  they  are  paid  for  coming  out.  I give  it  as 
a carefuUy  formed  judgment,  that  not  one  Amer- 
ican voter  in  five  reaUy  feels  that  he  has  any  per- 
sonal responsibility  in  the  government  of  the  coun- 
try. All  feel,  of  course,  that  they  have  a personal 
interest  in  it,  but  this  interest  is  not  associated 
with  a sense  of  high  personal  duty.  In  times  of 
pohtical  excitement  they  may  be  excited,  but  their 
interest  is  mainly  in  behalf  of  a j)arty.  They  may 
work  very  enthusiasticaUy,  indeed,  for  ‘‘  our  side,” 
without  giving  a single  thought  to  our  country. 
To  a certain  extent,  this  is  the  result  of  ignorance, 
or  a lack  of  power  to  gi*asp  their  real  relations  to 
the  state,  or  of  a degree  of  moral  poverty  which 
shuts  them  off  from  aU  high,  patriotic  motives. 


136 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING, 


I have  yet  to  learn  that  the  American  nation  is 
not  the  equal  of  any  of  the  nations  of  the  world  in 
the  iDossession  of  pure  morals  and  Christian  vir- 
tues; but  it  is  painfully  evident  that  there  is  not  a 
nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth  in  which  bad  men 
have  such  facihties  for  acquiring  and  retaining 
power  as  in  ours.  They  win  elections  to  seats  in 
the  national  legislature  by  frauds  and  briberies: 
they  go  to  roost  like  foul  bmds  in  the  offices  of 
great  cities;  they  batten  on  pubhc  spoil;  they  dis- 
grace Christian  civilization  and  free  institutions; 
they  debase  the  moral  sense  of  the  nation.  To 
them,  a countiy  or  a city  is  but  a great  goose  to  be 
plucked  and  plucked  and  plucked  again,  until, 
sibilant  and  shrieking,  it  tears  itself  from  their 
grasp,  to  be  caught  immediately  by  another  set  of 
spoilsmen  and  iDlucked  to  the  very  quills  and  pin- 
feathers. 

Now,  who  is  responsible  for  this?  Not  the  bad 
man,  certainly,  or  not  the  bad  men  mainly.  It 
can  hardly  be  accounted  a crime  for  a vessel  to  run 
a blockade  if  she  can,  and  her  interests  demand 
the  risk;  but  it  is  a crime  for  a blockading  fleet  to 
allow  her  to  do  it.  If  the  devil  is  permitted  to 
manage  the  pohtics  of  a nation  we  expect  him  to 
do  it,  for  politics  are  in  his  X3articular  line;  and  the 
good  men,  whose  business  it  is  to  hinder  him  from 
doing  it  must  be  held  responsible  for  the  damage 
that  may  result  from  his  management.  Thus  I 
affirm  that  the  good  men  of  America  are  mainly 
resx:)onsible  for  everything  evil  in  American  poli- 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


137 


tics.  They  have  tlie  best  social  influences  in  tlieir 
bands;  they  have  the  Christian  Church;  they  have 
the  hterary  institutions;  they  have  the  pure  sym- 
pathies of  women;  they  have  reason,  conscience, 
truth,  and  God  all  on  their  side — nay,  they  have 
the  majority;  and  the  only  reason  wdiy  bad  men 
reign  and  they  are  powerless,  is  that  they  are 
shii’ks. 

Yet  these  political  shirks  are  very  respectable 
men.  Let  us  not  allude  to  them  too  harshly  or 
too  lightly.  If  they  are  “ fossihferous  ” and  fussy, 
they  are  prudent  and  pious.  Far  be  it  from  me  to 
speak  disrespectfully  of  their  linen,  or  to  question 
the  whiteness  of  their  fragrant  hands.  They  are 
exceedingly  clean  and  pure  men,  their  particular 
fault  (if  they  have  one)  being  an  excessive  cleaiih- 
ness  and  purity  that  unfits  them  for  havmg  any 
thing  to  do  with  politics.  They  are  of  that  un- 
lucky moral  hue  that  shows  dirt  on  the  shghtest 
provocation,  and  requires  them  to  be  carefully 
dusted  and  set  away.  They  refuse,  year  after  year, 
to  visit  the  polls,  because  politics  have  become  so 
corrupt  that  they  have  ceased  to  have  any  interest 
in  them,  or  because  good  men  are  not  nominated 
for  office;  yet  they  never  dream  of  attending  a 
primary  meeting  to  make  sure  that  good  men  are 
nominated,  or  of  making  any  attempt  to  render 
politics  less  corrupt.  Of  all  the  shirks  and  sneaks 
which  the  prolific  soil  of  America  produces,  there 
certainly  can  be  none  more  despicable  than  these. 
America  is  not  suffering  from  a political  evil  to- 


138 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


day  for  which  the  good  men  of  the  country  should 
not  be  held  mainly  responsible.  Bad  men  have 
run  the  nation  upon  ruin,  because  they  have  been 
permitted  to  do  it;  and  good  men,  instead  of  lead- 
ing in  the  political  battles,  have  fought  humbly  in 
the  ranks,  or  run  away.  Indeed,  many  of  them 
have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  is  some- 
thing necessarily  demoralizing  in  politics,  and  that 
religion  and  pohtics  are  entirely  incompatible  with 
each  other. 

There  is  another  class  of  good,  or  goodish  men, 
who  hold  political  privilege  at  a cheap  price,  and 
who  are  ready  to  sell  it  for  personal  ease  and  con- 
venience. They  are  willing  to  look  after  politics  a 
little,  or  to  do  anything  for  their  country,  if  it  does 
not  cost  too  much  trouble,  or  too  much  money. 
They  are  very  much  absorbed  by  their  own  affairs, 
and  have  no  time  to  give  to  their  town,  or  their 
state,  or  their  country.  They  leave  these  matters 
to  those  who  have  leisure;  and  those  who  have  leis- 
ure happen  to  be  those  who  are  bent  on  j)ublic 
mischief  or  private  advantage.  Bad  men  always 
have  leisure  for  taking  and  employing  all  the 
power  which  the  excessive  occupation  of  good  men 
leaves  in  their  hands.  While,  therefore,  one  set 
of  men  are  so  good  as  to  be  disgusted  with  politics, 
and  another  is  so  busy  as  not  to  have  time  for  at- 
tending to  them,  the  very  worst  elements  of  society 
find  an  easy  path  to  power. 

The  time  was  not  long  ago  when  there  were  few 
— alas!  how  few! — who  were  willing  to  sacrifice 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


139 


anything  for  their  country.  The  best  men  have 
declined  office  and  shunned  public  duty  because 
they  could  not  afford  to  hold  office.  They  could 
afford  to  see  office  held  by  second  and  third  rate 
men,  and  to  be  themselves  ruled  by  vicious  men, 
and  to  leave  the  institutions  of  their  country 
cheapened  and  disgraced  by  the  weak  or  wicked 
administration  of  the  laws,  but  they  could  not  af- 
ford to  part  company  with  a few  dollars  to  serve 
the  country  and  the  institutions  which  their  chil- 
dren were  to  inherit!  What,  in  Heaven’s  name, 
shall  become  of  a nation  whose  good  men — whose 
best  men — not  only  refuse  to  participate  in  elec- 
tions, but  refuse  to  be  elected  to  office,  when 
chance,  or  an  aroused  moral  sentiment,  designates 
them  for  responsible  positions?  Let  the  unhappy 
condition  of  the  country,  and  the  history  of  the 
last  twenty  years,  give  answer! 

I have  thus  spoken  of  several  varieties  of  shirk- 
ing, and  several  classes  of  shirks.  I might  men-  ' 
tion  others,  but  it  would  be  alike  tedious  and  un- 
necessary. 

And  now  I am  ready  to  ask  what  the  cure  for 
this  grand  national  fault  in  all  its  various  forms  of 
manifestation  may  be.  What  is  the  medicine  for 
this  meanness?  What  will  drive  the  shirking 
multitudes  that  throng  all  the  easier  trades  and 
professions  back  to  hard  and  honest  gains  in  the 
useful  or  productive  arts  of  hfe?  What  will  harden 
the  bones  and  strengthen  the  muscles  and  stiffen 
the  courage  of  manhood,  so  that  it  wiU  assert  itself 


140 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


as  iBanliood  should — at  all  times,  in  all  places — 
yielding  nothing  of  personal  conviction  or  personal 
power  to  a weak  desire  for  peace  or  ^Dopnlarity? 
What  will  make  ns  pnbhc-spirited,  and  generous  in 
social  life?  What  will  enlarge  our  sympathies  and 
quicken  our  activities  as  membei\s  of  a national 
brotherhood?  What  thing,  more  than  any  other, 
will  bring  us  up  to  a comprehension  of  our  political 
duties,  and  a willingness  to  perform  them?  What 
win  teach  us  that  we  cannot  shirk  these  duties — 
that  there  is  not  an  interest  of  life  on  which  they 
do  not  have  a practical  bearing?  What  wiU  make 
us  nobler  and  more  unselfish  men — more  wilhng  to 
do  or  die  for  that  which  is  godfike  in  our  souls 
and  God-given  in  our  institutions?  What  v/ill 
transform  all  this  multitude  of  personal,  social,  and 
political  shirks  into  heroes,  and  evoke  from  this 
mass  of  sneaking  laziness  and  selfish  indifference 
those  virtues  which  are  a nation’s  noblest  v/ealth? 
I answer — A great  war  for  a great  cause. 

If  the  history  of  America  for  the  last  fifty  years 
proves  anything  with  striking  clearness,  it  proves 
that  a long  peace,  maintained  without  sacrifice, 
and  held  without  a sense  of  its  value,  is  the  very 
breeding-bed  of  cowardice,  cupidity,  and  corrup- 
tion. The  most  heroic  blood  becomes  thin,  and 
the  stoutest  hearts  grow  weak  and  cowardly,  in  the 
luxurious  atmosphere  of  a cheap  peace.  National 
pride,  love  of  country,  patriotic  self-devotion — 
these  are  not  the  sentiments  and  the  virtues  that 
thrive  among  a people  that  recedes  from  all  sense 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING, 


141 


of  national  care  into  tlie  selfish  iDiirsuits  of  gaiD,  or 
the  weak  indulgences  of  ease.  Peace  is  very  beau- 
tiful; peace  may  be  very  safe,  indeed,  for  angels; 
but  for  men,  with  the  imperfections,  temptations, 
and  tendencies  of  men,  a peace  that  is  not  the  jDiice 
of  ceaseless  vigilance,  and  the  cost  of  a daily  sense 
of  sacrifice,  may  be  a curse  so  much  worse  than 
war,  that  war  may  be  gladly  greeted  as  a blessing 
in  its  stead.  It  was  London,  cheaply  built  and 
cheaply  held,  and  bent  on  selfish  advantage,  that  was 
smitten  again  and  again  by  the  plague.  At  length, 
in  one  brief  visitation,  it  breathed  upon  and  blasted 
a hundred  thousand  lives.  And  then  came  the 
furious  and  all-devouring  fire,  driving  the  sickly 
multitudes  from  their  homes,  and  hcking  up  and 
mping  out  cheap  London  forever.  Straightway, 
on  the  ruins  of  both  plague  and  fire,  rose  a nev/ 
city;  and  long  generations  have  blessed  the  fire 
that  banished  the  plague  forever.  The  question 
in  America  has  been  for  many  years  between 
plague  and  fire.  With  a full  comprehension  of  the 
horrors  and  sacrifices  of  war — with  a heart  bleeding 
with  syinpathy  for  every  soul  to  which  war  brings 
bereavement  and  sorrow — I thank  God  for  the  fire, 
and  the  dearer  and  better  peace  it  will  bring  us. 

Pure  is  a great  renovator  and  gunpowder  a re- 
markable disinfectant.  Already  is  the  influence  of 
war  visible  for  good  upon  the  American  people. 
Men  have  not  only  discovered  that  there  is  some- 
thing better  than  money,  but  more  than  this — and 
greater  discovery  than  this — that  there  is  really 


142 


WOBKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


something  which  they  love  better  than  money. 
The  universal  revival  of  patriotism  in  the  American 
heart,  and  the  devotion  of  a million  hands  and  lives 
to  patriotic  duty — is  not  this  a blessing?  Could 
anything  but  war  have  won  it?  That  one  thrill  of 
patriotic  indignation  that  passed  through  the 
American  heart  when  the  national  flag  was  insulted 
at  Fort  Sumter,  by  those  whom  it  had  j)rotected 
for  nearly  a century,  was  worth  more  than  the 
whole  sum  of  emotion  that  had  rolled  up  in  lazy 
accumulation  during  the  previous  period  of  peace. 
It  transformed  every  man  into  a hero;  it  made  a 
heroine  of  every  woman.  It  was  like  the  sudden 
flowering  of  the  aloe,  after  sleeping  through  a 
century  of  suns.  It  burst  upon  the  world  hke  the 
comet  that  followed  it — unheralded,  unexpected. 
Men  saw  the  flaming  glory,  streaming  up  the  mid- 
night sky,  and  wondering  from  what  depth  of 
heaven  it  had  sprung. 

And  now  there  have  gone  forth  a million  of  men, 
drawn  from  every  walk  of  society,  with  their  lives 
in  their  hands,  to  defend  American  nationality  and 
American  institutions.  The  lawyer  has  left  his 
briefs,  the  preacher  has  left  his  flock  or  taken  it 
with  him,  the  physician  has  forsaken  his  daily 
round  of  duty,  the  merchant  his  counting-room, 
the  politician  his  intrigues,  and  the  rich  man  his 
home  of  ease;  tlie  governor  and  the  governed,  the 
high  and  the  humble,  have  gone  together,  and  all 
have  pressed  forward,  inspired  by  a common  im- 
pulse, to  do  or  die  for  home  and  native  land. 


WORKING  A XI)  SHIRKIXG. 


143 


Men  who  have  long  been  sleex)ing  in  their  political 
seiDiilchres  have  come  forth  by  a miracle  of  resur- 
rection, to  the  surprise  of  the  doubtful  and  the  joy 
of  friends.  That  great  number  whose  perch  has 
been  the  fence  through  years  of  questionable  man- . 
hood,  have  made  haste  to  descend,  and  to  declare 
tiiemselves  for  them  country  against  ail  foes.  Wo- 
men, used  only  to  luxury,  have  laid  aside  their 
frivolous  pursuits,  and  with  busy  fingers  and  the 
noblest  charities  have  prepared  mustering  thou- 
sands of  fathers  and  brothers  and  husbands  and 
lovers  for  war.  Nay,  more:  forsaking  home  and 
kindred  and  comfort  and  peace,  they  have  gone 
forth  voluntarily,  at  their  own  charges,  and  with- 
out hope  of  reward,  to  breathe  the  foul  ah*  of  hos- 
jjitals,  and  move  among  the  cots  of  the  sick  and 
wounded  soldiery,  with  the  sweet  ministries  of 
sympathy  and  mercy.  Capital,  timid  and  careful 
and  compromising  through  years  of  political  decay, 
and  gathering  signs  of  national  disruption,  has  be- 
come bold  and  defiant.  Noblest  of  all,  it  has 
thrown  its  giant  arms  around  the  tottering  form  of 
American  nationahty,  and  sworn  to  sustain  it  for- 
ever. It  has  brought  its  golden  treasures,  and 
laid  them  ail  at.  the  feet  of  its  country,  and  said: 
“ Take  them,  for  without  thee  they  are  worthless.” 
If  there  could  be  one  thing  nobler  than  the  eager 
readiness  of  a milhon  of  men  to  sacrifice  their  fives 
for  their  country,  it  would  be  the  bold  and  unhes- 
itating devotion  of  capital  to  the  common  cause. 
Prom  its  natui*e,  it  is  the  sign  and  seal  of  political 


144 


WOBKIKG  AND  SHIRKING. 


salvation,  and  the  harbinger  of  retiiniing  political 
virtue. 

There  is  no  lack  now  of  personal  self-assertion. 
All  men  now  have  an  opinion,  and  there  are  but 
few  who  have  not  been  stiffened  up  to  a determin- 
ation to  assert  and  maintain  it  against  all  forms  of 
opposition.  Political  shirking  is  among  the  sins  of 
the  past.  Men  feel  now,  in  their  consciences  and 
in  their  personal  interests,  the  burdens  of  the  gov- 
ernment, and  understand  and  feel,  as  they  have 
never  understood  and  felt  before,  their  personal  re- 
sponsibility in  pubHc  affairs.  When  men  fight  for 
their  country,  and  sacrifice  their  present  prosperity 
and  their  accumulated  treasure  for  their  country, 
and  voluntarily  tax  themselves  through  the  re- 
mainder of  their  lives  for  their  country,  they  will 
apprehend  and  faithfully  discharge  their  personal 
responsibihties  in  its  government. 

He  would  be  an  unwise  and  a most  unsafe  physi- 
cian who  should  prescribe  war  as  a specific  remedy 
for  each  of  the  national  evils  I have  discussed,  con- 
sidered without  relation  to  their  cause;  but  it  must 
be  remembered  that  they  are  the  offspring  of  a 
common  j^arent.  It  is  because  we  have  held  our 
choicest  blessings  cheaply — it  is  because  we  have 
enjoyed  them,  like  air  and  water,  without  price, 
and  with  no  adequate  sense  of  their  value,  that  we 
have  failed  to  appreciate  the  minor  good,  and, 
whenever  possible,  shirked  its  price.  The  right  to 
life,  hberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness — a right 
for  the  acquisition  and  maintenance  of  which 


WORKING  AND  SHIRKING. 


145 


many  a nation  has  struggled  through  centuiies  of 
blood  and  sacrifice — the  right  which  the  revolu- 
tionary fathers  fought  through  weary  years  of  suf- 
fering and  iDrivation  to  achieve — we  have  enjoyed 
without  sacrifice,  mthout  price,  and  with  only  the 
feeblest  sense  of  its  value.  The  right  to  worship 
God  according  to  the  dictates  of  our  ov/n  con- 
sciences, under  forms  of  our  own  choice, — the 
light  which  the  pilgrim  fathers  found  in  the 
wilderness  after  their  weary  search  across  the  sea — • 
has  been  ours  without  question  and  without  cost. 
The  right  to  govern  ourselves — asking  no  privilege 
of  outside  powers,  and  suffering  no  interference 
from  them — has  been  as  cheaply  held  as  the  right 
to  breathe.  It  is  thus  that  we  liave  lost  the  stand- 
ard by  which  to  measure  values,  and  learned  to 
shirk  the  price  demanded  for  our  humbler  wealth. 

The  war  remedy  is  a radical  one.  It  strikes  at 
the  very  root  of  the  difficulty;  and  I have  no  more 
doubt  of  its  curative  power  than  I have  that  Prov- 
idence presciibes  it.  Whatever  may  be  the  issue 
of  this  war,  it  will  leave  us  a better,  a braver,  and 
every  way  a nobler,  people.  It  wiU  leave  us  indus- 
trious, sober,  willing  to  earn  the  good  we  enjoy. 
It  will  make  us  self -respectful,  and  self-assertmg, 
at  whatever  cost  of  peace  or  popularity.  Best  of 
aU,  it  will  teach  every  man  the  value  of  the  politi- 
cal blessings  he  enjoys,  and  place  the  government 
once  more  in  the  hands  of  the  people,  who  will  re- 
store to  power  the  statesman  so  long  discarded, 
and  displace  the  politician  forever. 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE. 


IFE  is  high  or  low  according  to  its  pursuits, 


pleasures,  and  motives.  There  may  be,  and 
as  a matter  of  fact,  there  often  is,  high  life  below 
stairs  and  low  life  in  the  drawing-room.  There  are 
palaces  into  which  the  conception  of  what  consti- 
tutes high  life  has  never  entered.  There  are  hov- 
els so  radiant  and  redolent  with  a high  and  beauti- 
ful hfe,  that  we  count  theni  courts  of  the  immor- 
tals. There  was  conventional  high  life,  I presume, 
in  Sodom;  but  the  only  variety  which  the  angels 
recognized  was  found  in  Lot’s  tent,  at  the  gate  of 
the  city;  and,  for  the  rest,  the  flames  dis^^osed  of 
it.  There  was  a good  deal  of  nominal  high  life, 
without  doubt,  among  the  antediluvians;  but  there 
was  only  one  family  that  was  high  enough  to  keep 
its  head  above  water. 

Beal  high  life  and  conventional  high  life  have 
rarely  been  identical;  and,  although  the  theme  is 
not  new,  I have  thought  that  a fresh  presentation 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE. 


147 


of  it  might  not  be  without  interest  and  profit. 
The  preacher,  the  social  reformer,  the  philanthro- 
pist, the  philosopher,  the  statesman,  and  the  mor- 
ahst,  all  drive  at  it  from  different  directions,  push- 
ing their  ideas  toward  a common  centre,  as  the 
Indian  hunters  sweep  the  game  of  the  prairies  into 
a single  inclosure.  It  certainly  ought  not  to  be 
irksome  to  stand  where  the  lines  converge,  .and 
survey  the  group  as  it  assembles. 

It  will  be  useless  for  us  to  enter  upon  a discus- 
sion like  this  without  a measure  of  honest  faith  in 
human  nature,  and  in  the  perfectibility  of  human 
character.  I believe  there  are  such  things  in  and 
among  men  as  honor,  virtue,  truthfulness,  dignity, 
unselfishness.  I neither  propose  nor  oppose  any 
rheological  dogma  when  I say  that  I believe  in  hu- 
man nature.  It  is  my  nature,  and,  if  God  made 
me,  it  is  the  nature  He  gave  me.  There  may  be 
in  it  hereditary  tendencies  to  evil — it  would  be 
strange  if  there  were  not;  but  the  nature  itself  is 
the  finest  and  most  glorious  of  all  God’s  work,  in 
this  world,  itself  fitted  up  expressly  for  its  habita- 
tion. Without  this  faith  in  human  nature,  high 
life  is  anything  we  may  choose  to  call  such,  and  low 
life  is  simply  that  which  does  not  please  us.  I 
make  this  statement,  in  this  way,  because  there 
are  so  many  who,  for  various  reasons,  mostly  found 
in  their  own  hearts  and  lives,  do  not  believe  in  the 
possibihty  of  a human  life  organized,  active,  and 
permanent,  above  the  plane  of  selfishness  and  sen- 


U8 


HIGH  LIFE  AHD  LOW  LIFE. 


snality,  forever  free  from  the  dominion  of  sordid 
motives,  and  tending  only  to  divine  issues. 

We  shall  arrive  at  a competent  comprehension  of 
human  nature,  and  at  what  constitutes  high  and 
low  life,  by  an  illustration.  Let  us  regard  every 
rational  man  in  the  world  as  two  men.  Every  in- 
dividual shall  be  dividual  into  a master  and  a slave. 
Every  man  is  constituted  a man  by  the  conjunction 
of  an  angel  with  an  animal.  Each  has  a distinct 
and  characteristic  will,  distinct  and  characteristic 
afiections,  passions,  powers,  and  destiny.  One  is 
limited  in  life,  and  dies  as  the  animals  die.  The 
other  hves  as  the  angels  live,  and  is  immortal. 
There  is  probably  not  a man  or  woman  before  me 
who  is  not  conscious  of  the  constant  struggle  going 
on  between  these  two  natures;  and  I presume  there 
is  not  one  who  is  not  conscious  that  all  the  real 
dignity  of  life  comes  through  the  thorough  subor- 
dination of  the  animal  to  the  angel  within  him. 
Let  us  hsten  to  what  our  man  in  white  and  our 
man  in  black  have  to  say  to  each  other. 

The  man  in  black,  being  irrational,  and  having 
no  law  but  desire,  says:  ‘‘I  wish  to  gorge  myself 
with  meat  and  drink;”  but  the  man  in  white  is 
rational,  and  replies:  ‘‘No;  that  would  harm  you, 
and,  as  you  are  united  with  me,  it  would  injure 
me.”  The  man  in  black  howis  or  wiiines,  and 
begs  for  indulgence,  but  the  man  in  white  repeats 
the  prohibition,  and  shuts  his  ears.  The  man  in 
black  pleads  for  tlie  object  of  his  base  desires,  but 
the  man  in  white  shrinks  from  the  suggestion  with 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE 


U\) 

indignation  and  sliame,  and  regards  with  tender 
honor  her  Yv^hom  the  man  in  black  would  poUiite 
and  min.  The  man  in  black  is  vain,  and  would 
dress  himself  in  gaudy  colors,  like  the  animal  or 
the  savage.  The  man  in  v/hite  objects  that  he 
would  not  be  his  fit  associate  thus  decorated.  The 
man  in  black  gets  angry  like  a dog,  but  the  man  in 
v/hite  holds  him  by  the  collar  until  he  is  calm. 
The  man  in  black  is  constantly  calling  the  attention 
of  the  man  in  white  to  the  objects  of  sense,  and 
pleading  for  greater  license,  and  offering  sweet  re- 
wards for  indulgence:  and  strong  and  true  as  the 
man  in  white  may  be,  he  feels  the  infiuence  as  a 
persistently  degrading  power. 

But  the  result  of  this  conference  is  not  always 
such  as  I have  represented  to  you.  The  man  in 
white  is  sometimes  a very  feeble  man,  and  the  man 
in  black  a very  strong  one.  In  such  cases,  the 
stmggle  may  be  as  long  as  hfe,  or  it  may  be  no 
struggle  at  all,  and  the  man  in  black  may  have 
everything  his  own  way.  You  have  only  to  look 
into  the  haunts  of  vice — into  the  drinking-hells, 
the  liooses  of  shame,  the  prisons,  the  halls  of  rev- 
elry, the  gambling-saloons, — nay,  you  have  only  to 
look  into  those  decent  dwellings  where  the  gTatifi- 
cations  of  sense  are  sought  for,  or  delighted  in, 
alone,  to  find  the  man  in  white  a miserable  menial 
— the  slave  of  the  man  in  black,  sharing  in  his  de- 
baucheries, and  pandering  to  his  desires.  If  ever 
in  these  places  the  man  in  white  asserts  his  will, 
the  man  in  black  tramples  upon  it.  If  the  man  in 


150 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE 


white  says:  “ This  is  wron-g,”  or  ‘‘that  is  indecent 
— I vrill  not  obey  you,”  the  man  in  black  leads  him 
by  the  nose,  and  proves  to  him  his  ho^jeless  subjec- 
tion. The  man  in  black  blasphemes,  or  commits 
murder,  or  drowns  himself  in  drink,  and  the  man 
in  white  serves  him  in  all  his  crimes  and  debauche- 
ries, and  weeps  between  his  helpless  protests,  or 
becomes  so  tainted  by  his  society  that  he  takes  a 
hollow  joy  in  his  degrading  service,  and  grows 
black  with  liis  companion. 

I beheve  in  the  slavery  of  this  particular  black 
man,  and  the  natural  superiority  of  this  particular 
white  man.  I do  not  beheve  that  the  black  man 
should  be  abused  and  killed,  but  that  he  should  be 
properly  fed,  clothed,  and  taken  care  of;  that  wdiile 
he  is  under  perfect  control  he  should  be  indulged 
in  his  natural,  healthful,  and  legitimate  desires. 
But  he  is  never  to  be  master,  never  to  take  the 
lead,  and  never  to  hold  an  equal  partnership  in  life 
with  the  white  man.  The  latter  is  to  be  sovereign, 
and  to  give  the  law  of  his  own  hfe  to  the  hfe  be- 
neath it. 

And  now  I drop  my  illustration,  to  make  the 
proposition  that  high  hfe  is  born  of  the  dominance 
of  the  soul  over  the  body — born  of  the  subordina- 
tion of  that  portion  of  our  natures  wliich  we  share 
with  the  animals  to  the  purposes  and  the  welfare 
of  that  portion  which  we  share  with  the  angels. 
There  can  be  no  perfection  of  human  chai’acter 
without  this.  There  can  be  no  such  thing  as  good 
society  without  this;  and  this  can  be,  or  human 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE, 


151 


life  is  no  more  than  a sorry  jest,  practised  upon  a 
race  of  beings  called  into  existence  for  that  pur- 
pose. I have  no  knack  at  sphtting  theological 
bail’s,  or  dodging  the  knives  of  those  who  do;  but 
of  this  one  thing  I am  as  certain  as  I am  that  there 
is  a God  in  heaven,  and  that  He  has  given  me  the 
faculty  of  reason,  viz:  that  human  ability  and  hu- 
man responsibility  never  part  company.  It  seems 
the  extreme  of  scholastic  idiocy  to  preach  human 
inability  out  of  one  corner  of  the  mouth  and  hu- 
man responsibihty  out  of  the  other, — to  erect  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world,  as  the  representative  of  hu- 
manity, an  effigy  of  helpless  and  hopeless  pollution, 
and,  shaking  the  scroll  of  a perfect  law  in  its  face, 
say:  ‘‘You  must,  but  you  can’t;  you  ought  to,  but 
it  is  impossible.”  I believe  in  human  responsi- 
bihty, and  with  it  the  essential  condition  of  human 
abihty,  or  I do  not  beheve  in  anything.  Without 
these,  progress  can  have  no  path,  and  perfection 
no  fulfilment. 

I have  said  that  the  inferior  man  is  to  be  properly 
fed,  clothed,  and  taken  care  of.  This  must  be,  be- 
cause the  superior  man  man  lives  in  him,  and,  in 
the  present  state  of  existence,  by  means  of  him. 
The  necessities  of  the  case  put  the  inferior  man  to 
labor  under  the  superior  man’s  direction  and  con- 
traint.  The  animal  in  man  is  always  lazy,  and 
needs  to  be  driven  to  its  work  hke  the  animal  in 
the  stall:  and  here  we  strike  the  question  of  labor 
as  it  relates  to  our  subject. 

We  find  the  whole  world  engaged  in  getting  a 


152 


man: LIFE  and  low  life. 


living — getting  food  to  eat,  clothes  to  wear,  houses 
to  dwell  in,  carriages  to  ride  in — comforts,  helps, 
luxuries,  for  the  sole  use  of  the  body.  This  care 
for  the  body  by  the  soul  has,  with  great  univer- 
sahty,  degenerated  into  a slavery  of  the  soul  to  the 
body.  The  great  masses  of  men  and  women  do 
nothing  else  all  their  hves  but  labor  to  supply 
themselves  and  their  dependents  with  the  means 
of  comfortable  subsistence.  There  seems  at  present 
to  be  no  help  for  this.  There  is  something  to 
hope  for  in  the  wider  diffusion  of  wealth  and  the 
invention  of  labor-saving  machinery — the  multipli- 
cation of  man-power  without  an  increase  of  con- 
sumption; but  even  these  consummations  ^vill 
amount  to  httle  in  the  relief  of  labor,  in  a country 
where  the  rewards  of  material  enterprise  are  limit- 
less, and  wealth  is  regarded  as  the  cliief  good. 
The  comprehension  of  the  essential  distinction  be- 
tween getting  a hving,  and  hving,  is  a matter  of 
education. 

I do  not  deny  that  there  is  a certain  amount  of 
education — of  soul-cuitoe — nay,  I do  not  deny  that 
there  is  a certain  amount  of  spiritual  satisfaction, 
in  intelligent  labor.  The  man  in  black  works 
under  the  impulsion  and  direction  of  the  man  in 
white,  and,  in  the  exercise,  the  man  in  white  finds 
food  for  his  faculties,  gains  a knowledge  of  mental 
and  material  forces,  discovers  the  qualities  of 
things,  and  secures  a healthful  expenditure  of  his 
constantly  generated  energies.  It  is*  happily  or- 
dained that  this  shall  be  so,  because  it  secures  a 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE 


153 


certain  amount  of  development  to  every  man, 
whatever  his  circumstances  may  be.  But  work  of 
the  body  is  not  life,  in  any  high  sense;  and  those 
who  prate  of  labor  and  worship  as  in  any  way  iden- 
tical are  the  shallowest  of  dreamers.  Work  is  the 
means  of  li^ung,  but  it  is  not  living.  The  aero- 
naut fills  his  balloon,  and  then  rises  and  floats. 
Floating  is  what  the  balloon  is  made  for.  It  takes 
in  its  breath  below,  and  it  can  be  held  by  a leash 
to  the  earth  it  spurns;  but  its  true  life  begins  when 
the  cords  are  loosed,  and  it  becomes  a comi^anion 
of  the  clouds. 

I once  found  myself,  on  a cold  winter  morning, 
in  a manufacturing  village.  At  four  o’clock — still 
more  than  three  hours  to  sunrise,  and  three  hours 
before  dawn — the  bells  of  the  factories  were  rung 
to  waken  the  operatives  to  their  day  of  toil.  Half 
an  hour  afterwards  they  went  to  their  work,  at 
which  they  remained  until  six,  when  they  break- 
fasted. Half  an  hour  was  given  to  the  meal,  when 
v/ork  was  resumed,  and  continued  until  twelve, 
when  they  dined.  Half  an  hour  was  also  given  to 
this  meal,  and  then  they  entered  the  mills  and 
worked  until  seven,  after  which  came  supper. 
More  than  fifteen  hours  between  bell  and  bell,  with 
only  one  hour  out  of  the  number  in  which,  silently, 
two  meals  were  bolted,  with  no  more  of  the  dig- 
nities and  amenities  of  life  at  the  table  than  may 
be  found  at  the  manger  during  cattle-feeding  ! 
Strong  men,  tender  women,  almost  children,  kepi 
to  this  work,  not  one  day  only,  but  six  days  of 


154 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE 


every  week,  and  fifty- two  weeks  of  every  year,  un- 
less the  water  should  fail,  when  the  wages  go  down 
with  the  gate!  How  much  of  a chance,  think  you, 
does  the  man  in  white  have  in  such  a life  as  this? 

It  is  complained  that  manufacturing  towns  are 
low  places;  that  religious  institutions  do  not  thrive 
there;  that  literary  societies  are  not  supported 
there;  that  people  will  not  turn  out  to  lectures 
there;  that  the  Sabbath  is  sadly  broken  there,  or 
sadly  idled  away:  that  there  is  no  reading  and  no 
mental  improvement  there.  Nice  peoj)le,  who  own 
manufactming  stocks  and  hve  upon  the  dividends, 
lament  this.  It  is  further  complained  that  oper- 
atives diink,  and  go  on  sprees,  and  throng  the  cu’- 
cuses,  and  crowd  the  halls  of  the  negro  minstrels, 
and  support  the  low  places  of  amusement,  to  the 
neglect  of  all  that  is  elevating  and  refining.  Do 
you  wonder  at  it?  Would  you  not  wonder  if  tliey 
did  anything  else?  A man  who  works  until  there 
is  no  life  left  in  him,  and  who  feels  that  to-morrow' 
is  to  be  like  to-day,  must  be  amused.  I do  not 
wonder  that  he  should  prefer  to  hear  a negro  min- 
strel or  a clown  to  hearing  me.  Nay,  nor  do  I 
blame  him  for  his  preference.  If  I were  in  his 
place,  I am  sm:e  that  I should  do  as  he  does;  and 
it  is  my  well-adjusted  conviction  that  the  clowm 
would  benefit  me  more  than  the  lecturer;  that  the 
hour’s  rehef  he  would  give  me  from  the  conscious- 
ness of  my  slavery,  would  do  more  to  make  my  lot 
tolerable  than  any  exercise  which  would  still  fur- 
ther tax  my  weakness,  or  which  would  give  mo 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE. 


155 


glimpses  of  a life  that  my  lot  places  beyond  my 
realization. 

You  will  admit  that  to  such  a community  as  this, 
high  life  is  not  attainable.  There  is  no  time  for 
society  but  such  as  may  be  stolen  from  the  hours 
of  sleep.  A man  who  has  been  on  his  feet  fifteen 
hours  is  unfitted  for  society,  unfitted  for  intellec- 
tual efforts  and  entertainments,  unfitted  for  relig- 
ious exercises,  unfitted  for  anything  and  every- 
thing that  pertains  to  a higher  life.  He  is  the 
slave  of  labor:  and  although  there  are  a few  who 
have  sufficient  vitahty  to  stand  up  against  the  de- 
pressing influence  of  this  slavery,  and  a few  who 
move  upon  a higher  plane  by  impetus  of  early 
habits,  acquired  under  more  favorable  circum- 
stances, the  masses  are  bound  to  low  life  by  a bond 
which  they  will  never  sunder,  and  which  it  is  well- 
nigh  impossible  for  them  to  sunder. 

Now  that  there  is  a great  wrong  involved  in  a 
system  of  labor  which  absolutely  compels  a class, 
and  that  a large  one  in  some  parts  of  the  country, 
andgrowinglarger  every  year,  to  a life  of  low  aims, 
attainments,  and  enjoyments,  there  can  be  no 
doubt.  Perhaps  you  will  say  that  the  case  I have 
cited  is  an  exceptional  one.  I think  it  is,  but  the 
average  hours  of  labor  in  our  factories  do  not  yield 
a much  better  result.  The  worst  of  the  matter  is, 
that  no  way  seems  apparent  for  remedying  the  evil. 
The  manufacturing  of  Great  Britain,  and  indeed  of 
all  Europe,  is  set  to  this  key,  and  the  manufactur- 
ing of  America  comes  into  competition  with  it,  and 


156 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE. 


to  be  successful,  must  harmonize,  with  it.  Eeform 
would,  in  many  instances,  be  the  ruin  of  the  man- 
ufacturer, and  the  loss  of  all  labor  to  those  in  Lis 
employ.  The  whole  machinery  of  trade  has  been 
adjusted  to  these  hours  and  these  values,  which  are 
established  by  them,  and  change  could  not  come 
without  a revolution  in  prices.  As  reform,  to  be 
practicable  and  permanent,  must  be  general,  and 
as  so  many  selfish  interests  are  involved,  I confess 
that  the  case  looks  hopeless  enough  to  me.  I can 
only  fall  back  on  my  faith  in  the  gradual  meliora- 
tion of  the  condition  of  society,  and  the  operation 
of  those  principles  of  justice  and  humanity  which 
are  embodied  in  Christian  civilization. 

But  the  factories  are  not  alone  in  their  denial  of 
high  life  to  laboring  men  and  women.  The  retail 
stores,  the  milliners’,  dress-makers’,  and  tailors’ 
shops — all  shops  where  the  w^ork  is  simple,  and 
devoted  to  the  ]3roduction  of  articles  of  common 
necessity,  compel  long  hours,  and  render  it  practi- 
cally impossible  for  their  inmates  to  make  much 
progress  in  intellectual,  social,  and  religious  excel- 
lence. It  is  not  possible  for  them  to  do  more  than 
work  and  eat  and  sleep,  and  get  such  brief  out-of- 
door  relief  and  amusement  as  w^ill  keep  theii*  fives 
from  becoming  utterly  tasteless. 

Now  I confess  to  a deep  and  tender  sympathy 
v/ith  these  people.  They  are  found  fault  with  for 
being  exactly  what  their  work,  through  a natural 
influence,  makes  them.  They  could  not  be  other- 
wise without  a constant  struggle  against  this  influ- 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE, 


157 


ence.  They  are  blamed  because  they  do  not  love 
reading,  because  they  do  not  seek  elevating  society, 
because  they  love  carousals  and  gay  assemblies  and 
buffoonery,  because  they  break  the  Sabbath  and 
will  not  attend  church.  Why,  the  great,  crying, 
everlasting  need  of  these  men  is  rest  and  amuse- 
ment. The  call  for  these  is  the  voice  of  God  in 
them.  Books  do  not  satisfy  it;  intellectual  society 
does  not  satisfy  it:  preaching  does  not  satisfy  it: 
and  when  I see  one  of  these  pale  fellows  or  pale 
girls,  after  having  worked  through  every  working 
hour  of  the  week,  walking  out  among  the  trees  and 
flowers  and  grass  on  Sunday,  enjoying  the  beauty 
of  God’s  world,  breathing  the  pure  air  and  enjoy- 
ing the  rare  luxury  of  the  blessed  sunlight,  I say 
in  my  heart  that  it  is  right.  It  is  enough  for  our 
cupidity  to  enslave  them  in  the  name  of  Mammon 
for  six  days  of  the  week.  It  is  too  much  for  our 
bigotry  to  enslave  them  in  the  name  of  God  on  the 
seventh. 

And  now,  if  we  turn  to  the  consideration  of 
voluntary  slavery  to  labor,  we  shall  find  that  the 
man  in  white  has  but  little  better  entertainment  in 
it  than  in  that  which  is  involuntary.  So  far  as  the 
effect  on  the  quality  of  life  is  concerned,  the  volun- 
tary devotion  of  a man’s  entire  energies  to  bodily 
abor  is  as  disastrous  as  if  it  were  compulsory. 
From  the  small  farmer  and  the  wife  who  is  the 
partner  of  his  toils  and  fortunes,  to  the  merchant 
whose  transactions  involve  annual  millions;  from 
the  maker  of  a button  to  the  builder  of  a navy; 


158 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE. 


throughout  the  -whole  range  of  trades  and  occupa- 
tions, -w^e  shall  witness  a voluntary  devotion  of  time 
and  vital  resources  to  labor — to  getting  a li-nng 
and  to  hoarding  for  real  wants  or  superfluous  wealth 
— whhdi  leaves  real  li-ving  entirely  out  of  contem- 
23lation,  and  places  it  beyond  possibility. 

But  let  us  understand  a little  more  definitely 
what  real  living  is.  We  all  know  what  getting  a 
living  is:  now  what  is  it  to  live?  It  is  to  engage 
in  and  enjoy  intellectual  activity  outside  of,  and 
above,  that  which  is  occupied  in  the  provision  for 
bodily  needs;  to  acquire  and  enjoy  knowledge  and 
the  power  which  is  born  of  it;  to  give  free  exercise 
to  social  sympathy  in  a pure  intercourse  with  young 
and  old;  to  have  sweet  satisfaction  in  home,  so  that 
it  shall  be  the  one  bright  spot  of  all  the  earth, 
never  left  without  a sense  of  sacrifice;  to  take  de- 
light in  those  things  which  rise  above  the  bare 
utilities  of  fife  into  the  realm  of  the  tasteful  and 
beautiful,  and  to  cultivate  the  arts  which  make  that 
realm  attractive;  to  be  happy  in  the  activity  of  the 
moral  and  religious  nature — in  worship  and  in 
ministry:  this  it  is  to  live. 

It  will  be  seen  that  living  and  getting  a hving 
are  very  different  things,  and  that  it  requires  time 
to  live  just  as  really  as  it  requues  time  to  get  a hv- 
ing. A man  who  labors  by  compulsion,  or  by 
choice,  fifteen  hours  of  every  twenty-four,  has  no 
time  to  live.  If  the  life  of  man  has  any  rewards 
above  that  of  the  animal,  they  must  be  found  in 
this  upper  hfe:  yet  how  few  are  they  who  look  to 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE, 


169 


this  upper  life  for  their  rewards  ! The  fact  ex- 
plains the  unsatisfactory  nature  of  wealth,  and  the 
countless  failures  in  the  search  for  happiness  which 
every  man  has  seen.  Let  us  glance  at  the  career 
of  a reiDresentative  mercantile  man.  Erom  the  age 
of  fourteen  to  twenty-one  he  is  a clerk  with  a mean 
salary,  and  with  such  confinement  to  long  hours 
that  he  finds  no  time  for  mental  improvement,  and 
no  time  for  the  development  of  social  and  sesthetio 
tastes.  He  enters  business  early,  with  a limited 
capital,  or  with  no  capital  at  all,  and  for  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  years  he  is  certain,  unless  he  dies,  to 
be  the  slave  of  his  business.  For  twenty-five  or 
thirty  years  he  feels  obliged  to  hold  the  man  in 
white  within  him  to  unrelieved  bondage.  He  does 
not  enjoy  home.  He  does  not  enjoy  leisure  when 
circumstances  bring  it.  His  shop  or  his  counting- 
room  is  the  centre  of  his  thoughts.  Visitors  at 
his  house  are  never  welcome,  if  they  interfere  with 
business,  or  take  any  of  his  time.  His  wife  and 
children  see  nothing  of  him.  He  is  not  felt  or 
seen  in  society.  He  is  known  only  as  an  active,  de- 
voted, business  man,  and  thrifty  as  a consequence. 

Let  it  be  remembered  that  during  all  these  years 
he  has  been  carrying  in  his  mind  the  thought  that 
he  is  getting  ready  to  live.  He  knows  that  he  is 
not  living — knows  that  there  is  something  better 
in  hfe  than  what  he  gets  out  of  it,  and  exjDccts  that 
after  the  body  is  inovided  for,  with  an  ample  mar- 
gin for  the  future,  he  will  then  begin  to  live,  and 
enjoy  the  reward  of  his  industry.  So,  at  last,  hav- 


160 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE. 


ing  acquired  money  enough,  lie  retires  from  busi- 
ness, and  finds — ^poor  man! — that  he  does  not  knov/ 
how  to  live.  Of  all  the  miserable  men  in  the 
\voiid,  I know  of  none  more  hopeless  and  helple  s 
than  a man  of  acquired  wealth  who  retires  from 
business  to  make  liis  first  experiment  in  living. 
Such  an  experiment  usually  results  in  one  of  three 
ways,  viz.,  he  sickens  and  dies  with  the  effect  of  a 
change  of  habits  and  with  disappointment,  or  he 
returns  to  his  business,  or  he  fritters  away  his  fife 
ill  aimless  activities.  The  real  man  within  him  has 
been  a slave  to  business  so  long  that  he  cannot  rise 
into  independent  life.  A man  who  does  not  learn 
to  live  while  he  is  getting  a living,  is  a poorer  man 
after  his  w^ealth  is  won  than  he  was  before.  There 
is  no  way  to  learn  how  to  live,  and  there  is  no  w&y 
to  live,  except  by  keeping  a life  organized  and  in 
operation  above  and  outside  of  the  labors  and  en- 
terprises involved  in  getting  a hving. 

V/hen  I see  at  a cottage-door  httle  patches  and 
pots  of  flowers,  and,  entering,  I find  a row  of  books 
upon  the  shelf,  and  a newspaper  on  the  table,  and 
a few  pictures  on  the  walls  in  domestic  frames; 
and  when,  on  a Sunday  morning,  I see  issuing 
from  this  door  a neatly-dressed  group  w^hich  takes 
its  way  to  the  village-church,  I know^  that  the  in- 
mates have  got  hold  of  life — got  hold  of  something 
better  than  gold — something  Avhich  lifts  them 
above  their  lot.  Their  time,  I know,  is  mainly 
f^pent  in  getting  a living,  but  they  find  some  time 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE. 


IGl 


to  live,  and  find  sometliing  in  life  tliat  gives  them 
dignity. 

It  is  always  delightful  to  see  a man  getting  at 
the  secret  of  hving;  and  I suppose  we  have  all 
witnessed  some  strange  transformations  of  character 
consequent  upon  discoveries  of  this  kind.  I have 
seen  men  introduced  to  life  by  the  reading  of  a 
poem  or  a story,  which  so  stirred  them,  so  revealed 
to  them  their  own  higher  natures,  so  discovered  to 
them  fresh  and  attractive  fields  of  pleasure,  that 
they  became  new  men  from  that  moment.  Straight- 
way they  chose  new  associates,  and  bought  new 
books,  and  sought  for  new  pictures,  having  akeady 
found  new  meaning  in  the  old  ones.  New  visions 
met  them  on  the  sea,  and  in  the  sky,  and  around 
them  on  the  earth.  That  which  had  been  their 
throne  became  their  footstool.  That  which  they 
had  hitherto  regarded  as  a realm  of  visions  and 
illusions  became  their  home. 

I have  seen  a man,  thoroughly  absorbed  in  busi- 
ness, introduced  to  hfe  by  being  compelled  for  a 
single  winter  to  care  for  a few  pots  of  flowers. 
The  flowers  became  to  him  teachers,  preachers, 
inspkers.  They  converted  him — transformed  him. 
Now,  whenever  he  can  steal  away  from  his  busi- 
ness, he  is  in  his  garden,  where  everything  he 
touches  thrives.  You  will  see  his  name  in  all  the 
horticultural  reports  of  the  section  in  which  ho 
lives,  and  if  you  enter  his  dwelling,  you  will  find 
everything  brought  into  harmony  mth  his  newly 


162 


EIQH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE 


born  taste;  and  you  will  find  him  living  and  enjoy- 
ing life,  and  preparing  to  enjoy  still  more  the 
wealth  which  his  busy  hands  and  tireless  enter- 
prise are  acquiring. 

Mr.  Wemmick,  in  ‘‘Great  Expectations,”  under- 
stood this  matter  very  well.  The  office  of  Mr.  dag- 
gers was  by  no  means  the  place  where  he  lived,  or 
found  the  rewards  of  his  life.  I think  that  httle 
castle  of  his  at  Walworth  one  of  the  most  delight- 
ful and  suggestive  of  ail  Dickens’s  creations.  The 
real  flag-staff,  the  draw-bridge  made  of  a single 
plank,  the  gun  fired  every  night  at  nine  o’clock 
Greenwich  time,  the  arrangements  for  standing 
an  imaginary  siege,  and  the  effort  to  excite  the  ad- 
miration and  secure  the  contentment  of  the  aged 
parent,  are  strokes  of  real  genius.  Wemmick’s 
philosophy  was  even  better  than  his  attem^Dt  at  its 
embodiment.  “The  office,”  says  Wemmick,  “is 
one  thing,  and  private  life  is  another.  When  I go 
into  the  office,  I leave  the  castle  behind  me;  and 
when  I come  into  the  castle,  I leave  the  office  be- 
hind me.  ” His  attempt  to  realize  something  in  life 
w'hich  should  reward  him  for  the  tedious  detail  of 
an  unpleasant  business  was  pecuhar,  p3iiia23S,  but 
his  theory  was  correct. 

I do  not  happen  to  believe  in  the  ennobling  in  - 
fluence  of  constant  physical  labor.  It  is  noble  and 
ennobhng  to  labor  with  a high  motive — to  labor 
for  personal  independence,  or  for  any  great  and 
good  end  which  involves  the  soul’s  prosperity;  but 
to  labor  for  bodily  subsistence,  throughout  one’s 


IIIGU  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE, 


1G3 


life,  is  not  ennobling  at  all.  If  I wished  utterly  to 
degrade  a nation,  I would  keep  it  to  constant  labor 
for  the  supply  of  bodily  needs.  What  such  labor 
as  this  has  done  for  slaves  of  all  colors,  and  what  it 
has  done  for  the  peasantries  of  the  v/orld,  we  ail 
laiov/.  Strict  confinement  to  such  labor  as  this  is 
necessarily  low  life.  It  is  bondage  to  the  body; 
and  high  life  is  only  to  be  realized  when  the  body 
becomes  the  soul’s  servant  in  its  high  pursuits  and 
its  pure  satisfactions. 

Again,  the  character  of  hfe  is  determined  by  its 
pleasiu’es.  I have  already  incidentally  touched 
upon  this,  but  it  requires  more  definite  treatment. 
There  is  a natural  desire  in  every  soul  for  pleasure. 
It  begins  with  infancy  and  lasts  as  long  as  life. 
And  here,  as  we  have  already  seen,  the  man  in 
white  and  the  man  in  black  are  at  variance.  All 
life  that  seeks  and  secures  its  best  satisfactions  in 
the  pleasures  of  sense  is  low,  and  you  may  judge 
how  much  of  that  which  is  called  high  life  is  really 
such.  I beg  you  not  to  misunderstand  me  here. 
I beheve  that  the  pleasures  of  sense  are  just  as 
legitimate  as  the  pleasures  of  the  soul,  and  that 
they  may  be,  and  should  be,  a portion  of  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  soul.  God  never  ordained  the  pleas- 
ure-giving power  of  the  senses  for  the  simple  pur- 
pose of  denying  its  indulgence.  I have  no  faith 
in  the  beneficence  of  any  creed  w^hich  im]poses  in- 
discriminate mortification  of  the  senses  as  sources 
of  pleasure.  Such  a creed  is  alike  inhuman  and 
ungodly.  I believe  that  there  is  not  a pleasure  of 


164 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFR 


sense,  from  the  least  to  the  greatest,  which  may 
not,  under  legitimate  conditions  and  limitations,  be 
made  a minister  to  the  soul’s  hfe — to  what  I have 
called  high  life — and  which  was  not  intended  to  be 
such  a minister.  It  is  when  the  pleasures  of  sense 
are  sought  for  and  indulged  in  as  the  chief  satisfac- 
tions of  life — when  the  soul  devotes  itself  to  the 
procurement  and  enjoyment  of  these  pleasures — 
that  they  are  perverted,  and  that  they  taint  the 
character  of  life  with  vulgarity  and  animalism.  I 
believe  a keen  enjoyment  of  sensual  pleasure  entirely 
compatible  with  a high  life  which  shall  be  the 
master  of  the  senses,  and  which  shall  hold  them 
subordinate  to  itself  and  its  own  peculiar  delights. 

All  slavery  is  low  life,  of  whatever  sort  it  may  be, 
and  the  most  abject  of  all  slaves  is  he  who  is  bound 
to  his  senses  as  the  sole  or  supreme  sources  of 
pleasure.  The  nature  of  this  slavery  can  be  read 
in  its  results.  The  drunkard  and  the  glutton  are 
always  low-lived  men.  There  are  some  instances 
in  which  the  soul  tries  to  keep  up  its  life  in  the 
midst  of  sensual  slavery.  It  is  a sort  of  mongrel 
life,  and  always  ends  in  the  reform  of  one  life  or 
the  destruction  of  the  other.  There  are  grosser 
forms  of  sensual  indulgence,  having  a peculiar 
power,  when  relied  upon  for  satisfaction,  to  bestial- 
ize  men,  and  to  impose  the  lowest  life  upon  their 
devotees.  I say  that  high  life  is  impossible  to  any 
person  who  relies  upon  the  ministry  of  sense  for 
his  choicest  pleasures.  Even  music  itself,  divine 
as  it  may  be  made,  and  purifying  and  elevating  as 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE. 


165 


it  is  wlien  used  aright,  may  become  degrading,  as 
all  know  w^lio  have  with  sadness  marked  the  low 
life  of  many  who  are  devoted  to  it.  The  pleasures 
of  sense  have  no  power  in  and  of  themselves  to  hft 
a man  above  the  brutes  around  him;  and  he  who 
clings  to  them  as  his  chief  delight,  and  makes  their 
acquisition  his  principal  pursuit,  is  more  a brute 
than  a man.  It  inatters  not  hov>r  or  where  such  a 
man  lives,  or  what  his  social  position  may  be ; lie 
is  low-lived — ^unfit  for  good  society — ^out  of  place  in 
any  sphere  of  high  life. 

The  pleasures  of  the  mind,  the  soul,  the  heart — • 
of  all  those  departments  of  the  human  nature  which 
characterize  it  as  human  nature — are  the  pleasures 
of  high  life,  and  they  are  as  various  as  the  forms 
and  phases  of  that  nature.  The  difficulty  is  that, 
in  our  absorption  in  the  business  of  getting  a liv- 
ing, we  do  not  have  time  and  opportunity  for  a 
culture  broad  enough  to  make  all  these  sour  ces  of 
high  pleasure  available.  One  man  gets  a taste  of 
knowledge,  and  spends  his  life  in  the  pleasure  of 
acquiring  it.  Another  takes  his  principal  delight 
in  the  production  of  works  of  beauty,  or  in  the 
study  and  possession  of  them.  Another  is  most 
dehghted  with  poetiy.  Another  has  his  highest 
satisfaction  in  science  or  philosophy,  while  his 
neighbor  has  his  life  in  pure  society:  with  strong 
human  sympathies,  he  dehghts  to  mingle  vdth  his 
kind,  in  the  active  life  of  the  affections.  Another 
has  his  highest  pleasure  in  religion,  in  worship,  in 
the  practice  of  works  of  benevolence. 


1G6 


HIOH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE. 


Now  all  these  men  live  a high  life,  but  not  the 
higiiest  possible  to  them.  It  is  not  possible  that 
all  men  shall  grasp  all  the  pleasures  of  high  life, 
because  of  the  variety  in  the  constitution  of  their 
natures;  but  all  can  take  a broader  sweep  than  they 
do.  Almost  the  entire  high  life  of  the  Avorking 
classes — and,  practically,  the  working  classes  em- 
brace nearly  all  of  us — ^is  connected  with  religion. 
The  only  time  the  most  of  us  have  for  living  is 
Sunday.  The  remaining  six  days  of  the  week  are 
devoted  to  getting  a living.  By  religious  people 
and  their  families,  and — in  this  country,  among 
those  American-born — ^by  the  people  generally, 
there  is  no  culture  but  that  which  is  religious 
deemed  legitimate  on  Sunday,  and  none  but  relig- 
ious pleasures  accounted  consistent  Avith  the  sacred 
character  of  the  day.  To  this  fact  is  attributable 
the  dry  and  unattractive  character  of  a great  multi- 
tude of  religious  people.  They  occupy  but  a sin- 
gle sphere  of  high  life,  and  their  lack  of  culture  in 
other  directions  naturally  and  almost  necessarily 
makes  their  rehgion  of  the  hardest  and  most  un- 
generous type.  There  is  no  mistaking  the  fact,^ 
that  many  of  the  Christian  ^Deople  of  the  world  are 
held  in  contempt  by  men  of  culture  in  other  de- 
partments of  high  life,  because  they  are  so  utterly 
barren,  so  one-sided,  so  lacking  in  all  matters  of 
intellectual  culture.  There  is  no  mistaking  the 
fact,  that  Christianity  suiTers  in  its  reputation 
among  a large  class  of  intellectual  people  because 
BO  large  a number  of  its  professors  lack  culture  in 


IIIQII  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE, 


167 


all  other  directions.  The  religion  which  they 
represent  has  no  breadth  of  view,  no  comprehen- 
sion of  gToat  principles,  no  grand  and  all-embrac- 
ing sympathies  and  charities,  and  not  only  no  taste 
for  the  pure  pleasiu’es  of  the  intellect,  but  a cer- 
tain degree  of  contempt  for  them,  or  moral  aver- 
sion to  them.  It  has  seemed  to  be  the  pohcy  of 
some  churches  to  re^Dress  the  intellect,  to  decry 
reason,  and  to  reckon  the  higher  accomplishments 
of  the  mind  as  only  ministers  to  human  pride. 
iNow  my  idea  of  a Christian  is,  that  he  should  be 
the  most  generous,  cultivated,  and  attractive  man 
in  the  world;  and  my  belief  is,  that  the  more 
widely  he  can  extend  the  realm  of  his  pleasures  in 
the  domain  of  high  life,  the  more  thoroughly  wiU 
he  comprehend  and  enjoy  his  religion,  and  the 
more  mil  he  be  able  by  his  life  and  character  to 
commend  that  religion  to  the  esteem  of  all. 

But  the  man  who  is  devoted  exclusively  to  intel- 
lectual pleasures  is  quite  as  one-sided  and  quite  as 
dry  and  unattractive  as  he  whose  only  hold  upon 
high  life  is  through  his  religion — ^possibly  more 
so.  The  undevout  astronomer  is  not  only  mad, 
but  mean.  An  irrehgious  man,  whom  a love  for 
intellectual  pleasure  has  freed  from  the  dominion 
of  his  lower  nature,  lacks  still  the  grandest  element 
of  high  life. 

It  is  a matter  of  surprise  to  many  that  culture  in 
high  life  Is  so  almost  universally  partial.  There 
are  two  facts  which  lie  on  the  surface  of  things,  pa- 
tent to  common  observers,  viz. , that  highly  Intel- 


1G8 


IIIGB  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE, 


lectiial  people  are  not  commonly  highly  religions 
people,  and  that  highly  religions  people  are  not 
commonly  highly  mtellectual.  I do  not  state  these 
facts  as  unvarying  rules,  but  they  are  common 
enough  to  be  commonly  observed,  and  notorious 
enough  to  be  beyond  contravention.  The  great 
masses  of  church-members  you  will  find  to  be  sim- 
ple people.  Perhaps  the  great  masses  are  always 
simple  people;  but  in  the  church  you  will  find 
them  out  of  proportion  to  those  of  decided  intel- 
lectual culture.  And  is  it  not  true  that  the  major- 
ity of  intellectual  people  make  no  pretensions  to 
piety,  wliile  many  make  light  of  it  altogether,  as 
something  weak  and  childish?  The  proportion  of 
professional  men  who  are  actively  religious  is  small, 
and  those  are  not  usually  foremost  in  mental  gifts 
and  accomplishments.  It  is  a matter  of  popular 
regret  that  our  great  men  who  rise  to  important 
places  in  the  nation’s  counsels,  and  who  have  a 
predominant  influence  in  national  affairs,  are  gen- 
erally either  without  religious  character,  or  with 
strong  passions  unchastened  and  uncontrolled. 
This  is  so  notorious  that  many  have  come  to  regard 
religion  as  something  that  wiU  do  very  well  for 
humble  people,  and  for  women,  while  men  of 
strength  and  intellect  are  above  it.  This  idea  pre- 
vails not  only  among  professional  and  liighly  intel- 
lectual men,  but  it  largely  pervades  the  mechanical 
mind  of  the  country.  An  ingenious,  inventive, 
and  skillful  mechanic,  who  has  an  absorbing  inter- 
est in  his  pursuits,  is  rarely  a Christian — rarely 


man  life  and  low  life. 


169 


religious — and  none  are  more  aware  of  this  than 
mechanics  themselves. 

Now  why  is  this?  Is  an  intellectual  man  or  an  in- 
genious man  more  depraved  in  consequence  of  his 
superiority,  or  is  he  by  his  superiority  really  raised 
above  religion?  Neither.  It  is  mainly  because  he 
becomes  absorbed  by  the  sources  of  pleasure  which 
have  been  ojpened  to  him  in  his  intellect,  and  thus 
has  no  room  for  the  motive  which  would  extend 
liis  culture  to  the  rest  of  his  higher  nature.  The 
religious  life  of  the  masses  is  barren  and  unattrac- 
tive for  a similar  reason.  They  cultivate  their 
hearts  to  the  neglect,  certainly,  if  not  at  the  ex- 
pense, of  their  brains;  while  those  who  despise 
them  cultivate  their  brains  at  the  expense  of  their 
hearts.  Each  class  is  absorbed  in  its  own  sphere 
of  pleasure,  and  the  result  is  as  bad  as  it  can  be. 
The  intellectual  giants  of  the  world  give  us  a 
ChristlGvSS  Literature,  and  refuse  to  treat  religion  as 
anything  more  than  a useful  delusion,  or  fail  to 
speak  of  it  at  all,  while  people  of  common  gifts 
and  ordinary  culture  are  left  to  represent  a reli- 
gion which  holds  within  it  the  wealth  of  the  world, 
and  the  highest  and  purest  sources  of  pleasure 
V'hich  God  has  discovered  to  the  race.  The  world 
has  produced  but  few  Miltons  and  Newtons,  but  a 
number  sufficient  to  show  us  what  a noble  creature 
man  is  when  he  consents  to  drink  at  aU  those  foun- 
tains which  have  been  opened  for  the  satisfaction 
of  his  higher  nature. 

The  present  age  has  produced  one  man  whom  I 


170 


HIGH.  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE 


accept  as  one  of  the  most  beautiful  instances  of 
broad  culture  and  high  life  with  which  I am  ac- 
quainted, through  observation  or  history.  I have 
no  fitting  words  with  which  to  express  my  admir- 
ation of  this  man.  With  a power,  grace,  and  bril- 
liancy of  ]3oetic  expression  which  place  him  in  the 
front  rank  of  those  who  write  the  English  language, 
an  industry  that  is  tireless  in  its  search  after  and 
study  of  truth,  a love  for  and  a knowledge  of  art 
far  surpassing  all  who  live  and  all  who  have  lived 
before  him,  a moral  courage  that  tramples  upon 
conventionalities  as  if  they  were  chaff,  and  that 
gallantly  attacks  the  most  venerable  errors,  regard- 
less of  the  spite  of  their  petty  upholders — with  ail 
these,  he  unites  the  most  reverent  adoration  of  the 
great  Jehovah,  the  sweetest  trust  in  Jesus  Christ, 
and  the  sublimest  faith  in  the  revelations  of  the 
Old  and  New  Testaments.  To  this  man,  the  intel- 
lect of  the  world  bows  as  to  a master.  The  lovers 
of  art  accept  his  dictum  as  that  of  an  anointed  king. 
The  man  of  culture  is  content  if  he  can  read,  un- 
derstand,' ai}d  expound  him,  and  the  Christian, 
whether  high  or  humble,  recognizes  him  as  a 
brother  in  Jesus  Christ. 

No  man  can  read  the  works  of  John  Ruskin  with- 
out learning  that  his  sources  of  pleasure  are  well- 
nigh  infinite.  There  is  not  a fiower,  nor  a cloud, 
nor  a tree,  nor  a mountain,  nor  a star;  not  a bird 
that  fans  the  air,  nor  a creature  that  walks  the 
earth;  not  a glimpse  of  sea  or  sky  or  meadow* 


IIIGE  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE 


171 


gTeenery:  not  a work  of  worthy  art  in  the  domains 
of  painting,  sculpture,  poetry,  and  architecture; 
not  a thought  of  God  as  the  Great  Spirit  presid- 
iug  over  and  informing  all  things,  that  is  not  to 
him  a source  of  the  sweetest  pleasure.  The  whole 
world  of  matter  and  of  spirit,  and  the  long  record 
of  human  art,  are  open  to  him  as  the  never-failing 
fountains  of  liis  dehght.  In  these  pure  realms  he 
seeks  iiis  daily  food  and  has  liis  daily  Hfe. 

This  man,  so  full  of  pleasure,  is  a reformer.  In 
the  domain  of  art  he  moves  the  world.  A pagan 
architecture  dies  before  his  sturdy  strokes,  and  in 
the  revival  of  the  Gothic  he  is  Christianizing  the 
face  of  Christendom.  Ai’chitecture,  emancipated 
by  him,  has  nothing  before  it  now  but  progress. 
Painting,  which  had  bowed  so  long  to  the  authority 
of  the  masters,  has  been  released  by  him  from  the 
degrading  servitude,  and  led  back  free  to  its 
mother  nature.  Above  ail,  he  has  sanctified  the 
hterature  of  art,  and  has  demonstrated  in  his  own 
personal  life  and  character  that  a man,  to  be  truly 
great,  and  to  have  all  his  intellectual  nature  en- 
riched and  rendered  superlatively  fruitful,  must  be 
a religious  man.  I hold  up  this  man  as  a repre- 
sentative of  high  life,  and  as  an  illustration  of  the 
normal  union  of  all  the  highest  pleasures  of  the 
intellect  and  the  heart,  and  of  the  ministry  of  these 
pleasures  to  the  symmetrical  development  and 
power  of  the  man. 

There  is  still  another  point  in  this  discussion.  I 


172 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE 


liave  treated  of  pursuits  and  pleasures  as  determin- 
ative of  the  character  of  life.  It  remains  to  treat 
of  motives. 

What  is  a motive?  It  is  a source  of  motion. 
We  enter  a mill,  and  find  all  the  spindles  awhirr, 
and  all  the  shuttles  flying,  and  all  the  complement- 
jiiy  machhaery  in  operation  for  the  production  of 
a certain  fabric,  the  accomplishment  of  a certain 
end.  At  last,  we  descend  to  the  wheel-pit,  where, 
shut  away  from  common  observation,  the  great 
wheel,  turned  by  the  water  of  a passing  stream, 
swings  its  j)onderous  arms — the  source  of  all  the 
motion  we  have  seen  above  it.  This  is  the  motive 
of  the  mill.  Thus,  is  the  engine  the  motive  of  the 
steamer:  the  main-spring,  of  the  watch;  the  heart, 
of  the  vascular  system  of  the  living  body.  And 
wherever  we  see  a great  human  life  in  progress,  in 
the  production  of  notable  results,  we  may  always 
know  that  there  is  something  within  it  which  drives 
it — a motive  power.  It  may  be  a mixed  power,  as 
we  sometimes  find  steam  and  water  joined  in  the 
driving  of  a mill.  We  have  already  seen  that  the 
necessities  of  the  body  are  powerful  and  very  prev- 
alent motives  of  fife.  We  have  also  seen  that  our 
love  of  pleasure  in  the  various  spheres  of  high  and 
low  life  is  a motive  of  great  power,  and  by  these 
we  may  learn  how  everything  that  gives  action  and 
direction  to  life  is  a motive  of  life.  One  or  two  of 
these  motives,  in  consequence  of  their  prominence 
and  prevalence,  caU  for  separate  and  direct  treat- 
ment. 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE 


173 


Tlie  first  to  be  noticed  is  ambition.  There  is  in 
the  human  mmd  a natural  desire  for  distinction — 
for  being,  or  acquiiing,  something  which  shall  lift 
the  individual  above  the  mass,  and  give  him  con- 
sideration with  his  fellows.  Some  strive  for  power, 
and  these  seek  it  mainly  in  political  place  and  pre- 
ferment. Some  seek  only  for  notoriety,  and  resort 
to  many  means  for  keeping  their  names  before  the 
public.  Others  are  greedy  for  fame,  a higher 
and  a better  prize  than  notoriety.  In  oratory,  in 
literature,  in  war,  in  ten  thousand  fields  of  human 
action,  it  imjjeLs  to  the  greatest  sacrifices  of  time 
and  strength  and  safety.  It  urges  the  traveller 
through  dangerous  fields  of  discovery;  it  inspires 
Blondin  on  his  rope;  it  nerves  the  wrestler  at  his 
game,  and  gives  power  and  patience  to  the  noblest 
of  the  workers  in  art.  Indeed  it  comes  in  as  an 
aid  to  much  of  the  worthiest  work  of  the  world. 
A desire  so  natural  and  so  universal  as  this — a de- 
sire that  so  readily  joins  hands  with  the  highest 
motives  of  which  we  are  conscious — must  have  a 
legitimate  sphere  of  operation,  and  must,  when 
confined  to  this  sphere,  be  entirely  consistent  with 
the  highest  life.  When  it  is  united  \vith  a sincere 
love  of  men,  and  an  honest  regard  for  the  claims  of 
Christian  duty;  when  it  is  held  subordinate  and 
subsidiary  to  the  universal  good;  when  it  lusts  for 
and  gi’asps  at  nothing  which  actual  excellence  of 
power  and  character  may  not  legitimately  claim, 
then  it  is  good  in  itself  and  good  in  its  results.  It 
is  right  for  a man  to  desire  to  excel  in  anything 


174 


11  LG II  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE 


worthy  of  a man.  It  is  right  for  a man  to  lovo 
high  position  and  to  seek  it  in  right  ways.  It  is 
when  ambition  becomes  the  single  or  supreme  mo- 
tive of  hfe  that  it  is  wrong.  In  such  cases  it  is  in- 
variably selhsh  and  base,  and  gives  to  the  mind  in 
which  it  has  its  seat,  and  the  life  which  proceeds 
from  it,  a low  and  vulgar  character. 

No  man,  for  instance,  can  follow  politics  and 
place-hunting  as  the  business  of  his  life,  impelled 
thereto  by  liis  desire  for  distinction,  without  being, 
or  becoming,  a low-lived  man.  The  man  whose 
ruling  motive  of  life  is  the  desire  for  political  dis- 
tinction is  a mean  man,  no  matter  whether  he  oc- 
cupies the  bench  of  a country  justice,  or  the  chair 
of  the  President  of  the  United  States.  And  this 
explains  fully  why  it  is  that  our  politics  are  so  cor- 
rupt, and  why,  almost  invariably,  our  politicians 
are  men  without  moral  principle.  They  are  self- 
seeking  men,  almost  exclusively,  and  the  result 
upon  the  nation  is  as  bad  as  it  is  upon  themselves. 
This  accursed  selhsh  ambition  is  at  the  root  of  all 
the  political  evils  we  suffer  from  t^-day,  and  the 
parent  of  the  whole  series  of  horrors  through  which 
we  have  passed  during  the  last  few  years.  If  only 
those  men  had  been  intrusted  with  powder  whose 
love  of  God  and  their  country  surpassed  their  love 
of  themselves  and  their  love  of  place,  not  one  drop 
of  blood,  and  not  one  cent  of  money,  which  the 
Great  Kebellion  has  cost,  would  have  been  called 
for.  But  for  these  men,  we  should  have  remained 
a unil  ed  and  a happy  nation.  They  have  declnist- 


mo II  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE, 


175 


ianized  our  politics,  demoralized  our  nation,  and 
dethroned  God  in  the  national  councils;  and  noth- 
ing but  the  unselfish  virtues  of  the  people  have 
saved  the  countiy  from  irretrievable  wreck. 

What  is  Washington  life?  Is  it  high  life?  Do 
good  people  love  to  go  to  Washington  and  remain? 
Like  calls  to  itself  hke.  It  is,  and  it  has  always 
been,  a home  of  gamblers  and  courtesans  and  cor- 
ruptionists. I do  not  question  that  there  are  good 
men  there,  but  I beheve  that  the  majority  of  those 
in  place  are,  and  for  the  past  fifty  years  have  been, 
low-lived  men.  The  fife  that  is  lived  there  is  a 
selfish  one;  and  a selfish  life  is  always  low.  I state 
a notorious  fact,  when  I say  that  it  is  almost  as 
much  as  a decent  man’s  character  is  worth  to  be- 
come actively  engaged  in  pohtics.  He  is  obhged 
to  come  into  association  and  competition  with  so 
many  unfair  and  unprincipled  men:  he  is  obliged 
to  meet  and  struggle  with  such  meanness  and 
mendacity;  he  is  obliged  to  adopt  or  countenance 
so  much  immoral  machinery,  that  his  moral  sense 
becomes  sophisticated.  There  are  offices  in  this 
country  whose  Responsibilities  are  great,  and  whose 
honors  once  corresponded  mth  their  responsibili- 
ties, that  good  men  decline  to  accept  because  of 
the  low  fife  which  has  lied  and  cheated  and 
bought  its  way  into  them.  These  men  cannot 
afford  the  loss  of  moral  and  social  caste  which  con- 
nection with  these  offices  would  inflict  upon  them. 

We  five  under  that  which  is  theoretically  a popu- 
lar government — what  we  comfort  ourselves  by 


176 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFK 


calling  a popular  government.  A popular  govern- 
ment? What  have  the  people  had  to  do  with  it? 
Have  they  selected  their  office-holders  and  their 
rulers?  Have  they,  with  a Christian  conscience, 
sought  among  the  wise  and  good  of  the  land,  and 
selecting  the  wisest  and  the  best,  placed  them  in 
office  and  in  power?  Not  at  all.  Politicians  get 
themselves  nominated.  They  nominate  one  an- 
other. Choice  of  men  is  determined  in  newspaper 
offices,  in  little  cliques  and  cabals,  composed  of 
men  who  have  axes  to  grind;  in  primary  meetings, 
packed  and  managed  by  interested  demagogues; 
and  when  election-day  comes,  the  people,  lacking 
wisdom  or  organization  to  do  otherwise,  vote  for 
the  least  objectionable  political  candidate  presented 
to  them,  and  vote  bhndly  at  that.  The  people  are 
simply  used  for  the  purpose  of  effecting  the  aims 
of  the  demagogues.  I do  not  suppose  that  one 
man  in  twenty  who  votes,  ever  in  his  life  had  any- 
thing to  do  directly  or  indirectly  in  selecting  the 
candidates  for  office  whom  he  has  annually  assisted 
in  electing,  or  in  trying  to  elect. 

Ours  a government  of  the  people?  Why,  it  has 
been  a government  of  the  politicians  for  half  a 
century — of  a set  of  men  who,  in  the  main,  are  ac- 
tuated by  no  higher  motives  than  a love  of  plunder 
and  of  place;  and  these  are  the  men — low-lived 
and  selfish  and  mean — who  make  the  laws  and  pre- 
side over  the  destinies  of  a Christian  nation! 
With  all  this  selfishness  and  low  life  and  low  mo- 
tive in  pohtics,  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  we  have 


man  life  and  low  life. 


177 


political  convulsions?  The  grand  motive  power  in 
our  government  has  for  years  been  personal  and 
pohtical  ambition.  Behgion,  as  an  element  of 
political  power  and  life,  has  been  persistently 
counted  out;  and  when  its  aid  has  been  invoked  to 
secure  an  election,  it  has  been  done  selfishly  in  the 
main.  The  peojple  are  rehgious:  the  pohticians 
are  not. 

We  shall  find  at  the  pohtical  centres  that  which 
claims  to  be  high  hfe,  in  the  highest  meaning  of 
the  phrase.  Tashion  and  fools  fall  down  before 
this  hfe,  and  worship  it.  This  is  one  of  the  foulest 
ills  which  it  breeds  in  society — that,  by  the  for- 
wardness of  its  arrogance,  it  overtops  ah  other  hfe, 
and  holds  itself  before  the  public  with  its  intel 
lectual  culture,  and  its  low’  aims  and  motives,  as 
reaUy  and  distinctively  the  high  hfe  of  the  nation. 
We  hear  of  movements  in  high  hfe,  and  scandal  in 
high  hfe.  We  hear  of  high  hfe  attending  church, 
as  if  J ehovah  had  been  honored  in  an  unusual  way. 
High  hfe  dances,  and  Jenkins  informs  the  pubhc 
what  it  wore  on  the  occasion.  High  hfe  occupies 
a box  at  the  theatre,  and  gets  the  fact  reported. 
High  hfe  gets  married,  and  some  toadying  press 
announces  that  the  Hon.  Mr.  So-and-so,  member 
of  CoDgress  from  a certain  district  in  Massachu- 
setts, or  New  York,  or  Ohio,  has  led  to  the 
hymeneal  altar  the  beautiful  and  highly  accom- 
plished daughter  of  the  Hon.  Mr.  What’s-his-name, 
of  the  Caliinet  or  the  Senate.  And  this  announce- 
ment goes  the  round  of  the  newsmongers,  as  au 


178 


EIGE  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE 


instance  of  a ‘‘marriage  in  liigli  life.”  Does  the 
honorable  member,  who  got  his  seat  by  the  most 
dishonorable  demagogism,  protest?  Does  the  beau- 
tiful and  highly  accomplished  daughter  of  the  Hon. 
Mr.  What’s-his-name,  wdio  is  a played-out  belle  and 
a mercenary  husband-hunter,  blush  at  her  vulgar 
notoriety?  Does  the  Hon.  Mr.  What’s-his-name, 
who  is  very  happy  to  shift  the  expenses  of  his 
lovely  daughter  to  other  shoulders,  and  grind  a 
political  axe  at  the  same  time,  object?  Oh!  no; 
this  is  high  life — dignified  life — the  life  most 
directly  associated  with  the  government — the  social 
life  that  goes  with  successful  politics.  You  would 
blush,  and  so  would  your  modest  and  Christian 
daughters;  but  high  life,  such  as  we  find  at  the 
political  centres,  never  blushes.  It  has  no  thought 
that  is  not  selfishly  devoted  to  personal  aggrandize- 
ment. 

A gambler  is  a gambler;  and  I know  of  no  moral 
difference  between  the  gambler  in  politics  and  the 
gambler  in  money,  to  whom  he  is  so  fond  of  playing 
away  his  little  salary,  and  the  profits  of  his  little 
jobs.  There  is  no  moral  difference  between  them; 
and  there  is  no  reason  why  one  should  be  regarded 
as  belonging  to  high  life  more  than  the  other. 
Life  takes  the  character  of  its  motive;  and  all  self- 
ishness is  irredeemably  low. 

The  desire  for  wealth  is  a great  and  almost  uni- 
versal motive  of  life.  There  is  nothing  necessarily 
wrong,  or  low,  in  the  desire  for  wealth.  As  a 
means  of  good  to  the  possessor  and  to  the  world, 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE. 


17 'J 

when  rightly  used,  the  usefulness  and  desirableness 
of  wealth  are  hardly  to  be  over-estimated.  Wealth 
fills  the  world  with  beautiful  architecture,  hangs 
halls  and  walls  with  pictures,  fills  libraries  with 
books,  builds  churches  and  colleges,  furnishes  the 
life-blood  of  great  charities,  relieves  from  the 
slavery  and  the  hard  economies  of  labor,  commands 
time  for  culture  and  for  living,  procures  the  com- 
forts of  independence,  furnishes  the  sinews  of  war, 
constructs  raihoads  and  navies,  and  gives  wings  to 
commerce.  The  pursuit  of  wealth  under  right 
motives,  or,  rather,  for  right  ends,  is  as  legitimate 
as  the  iDursuit  of  competence.  It  is  only  when 
wealth  is  pursued  for  its  own  sake,  or  for  the  sake 
of  the  distinction  or  the  low  delights  which  it 
secures,  that  it  becomes  vulgar.  How  generally 
wealth  is  pursued  with  these  low  aims,  I leave  you 
to  be  the  judges.  How  often  the  claim  to  respect- 
abihty  is  based  upon  material  possessions,  we  all 
know.  Society  holds  many  men  and  many  families, 
whose  sole  claim  to  a respectable  position  is  based 
upon  the  possession  of  money.  Mr.  Jones,  the 
grocer,  was  a common  sort  of  man  enough  when 
he  was  poor,  and  his  family  were  not  recognized 
in  the  conventional  high  hfe  around  him.  But  Mr. 
Jones,  wishing  to  get  into  high  life,  with  his  family, 
kept  very  busily  at  work,  drove  sharp  bargains, 
and  used  his  Httle  ca^jital  so  wisely  that  he  became 
rich.  He  moved  into  a splendid  house,  bought 
expensive  equipage,  put  on  airs,  and,  though  high 
life  turned  up  its  nose  a httle  supercihously  at  first. 


180 


man  life  and  low  life. 


ifc  brouglit  it  down,  and  dipped  it  in  Mr.  Jones’s 
wine,  and  then  opened  its  drawing-rooms  to  Mr. 
Jones  and  his  family.  Mr.  Jones  bought  his  place 
in  society,  and  a share  in  conventional  high  life,  as 
he  would  buy  a box  in  a theatre,  or  a share  of  rail- 
way-stock. Even  this  is  better  than  the  pursuit  of 
wealth  for  the  sake  of  wealth — ^better  than  piling 
u]3  money  for  the  sake  of  counting  it,  or  to  see  how 
large  a pile  can  be  made  one’s  own.  Wealth,  as 
the  servant  of  high  life,  is  good;  but  wealth  as 
the  end  of  life,  or  as  the  basis  of  any  life,  whether 
nominally  high  or  low,  is  bad. 

But  these  are  the  commonplaces,  and  the  argu- 
ment needs  to  be  pursued  no  further.  I have  at- 
tempted to  define  natural  and  necessary  distinctions 
between  that  which  is  true  and  false  in  life — be- 
tween that  which  is  high  and  low.  I have  tried  to 
show  you  that  the  character  of  life  is  determined 
by  its  pursuits,  pleasures,  and  motives.  It  has 
been  a plain  task — so  plain  and  so  obvious  in  every 
statement,  and  so  trite,  withal,  that  it  must  have 
seemed  to  many  of  you  hke  the  recitation  of  a 
school-room.  Yet  you  know,  as  well  as  I,  that  the 
propositions  I have  made,  though  accepted  by  the 
judgment,  are  practically  rejected  by  the  hfe,  of 
society. 

Who  are  those,  generally,  in  society,  whom  soci- 
ety itself  regards  as  enviable, — as,  indeed,  repre- 
sentatives of  the  highest  life  of  society?  Are  they 
the  men  of  intellect,  the  men  of  accomphshments, 
the  men  of  pure  morals  and  pure  motives,  the 


niQlI  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE. 


181 


Christian  men;  or  are  they  the  men  of  wealth,  or 
the  occupants  of  place?  Who  are  those  who  give 
to  society  its  shape — who  pull  down  one  and  set  up 
another?  Who  arrogate  to  themselves  the  distinc- 
tions and  the  prerogatives  of  high  life?  I answer, 
the  men  of  power  and  the  men  of  money.  It  mat- 
ters not  what  their  pursuits  are;  it  matters  not 
what  their  pleasures  are;  it  matters  not  what  their 
motives  are — whether  a love  of  power,  or  distinc- 
tion, or  money:  they  claim,  receive,  and  hold  the 
highest  place.  Low  hfe  rides  and  high  life  walks. 
Low  life  assumes  the  leadership,  and  high  life 
modestly,  though  with  many  inward  protests,  ac- 
quiesces. Low  Hfe  throngs  the  market-places, 
throngs  the  watering-places,  throngs  political  con- 
ventions, throngs  the  halls  of  legislation,  throngs 
all  the  fashionable  assemblies.  It  has  a low  and 
vulgar  desire  to  be  seen  of  men,  while  high  life  is 
modest,  and  shrinks  from  contact  with  so  much 
that  is  meretricious  and  base.  The  animal  is  ram- 
pant and  regnant,  and  the  angel  hangs  his  head 
and  folds  his  wings. 

Can  we  not  build  better  than  this?  Shall  not 
Christian  manhood  and  Christian  womanhood  have 
and  hold  their  place?  ShaU  social  and  individual 
values  forever  depend  upon  material  conditions? 
“My  friend,  if  you  are  a man  of  brains,  a man  of 
culture,  a man  of  taste,  a man  of  pure  and  true  life, 
a man  acting  and  living  under  the  impulsion  of 
high  motives,  bow  no  more  to  hilse  gods.  De- 
mand that  a man  shall  be  a man  before  he  shall  be 


182 


HIGH  LIFE  AND  LOW  LIFE. 


your  associate.  Do  what  you  can  to  establish  jus- 
ter  social  values,  so  that  a man  shall  stand  for  a 
man,  however  poor  and  humble  he  may  be,  and  a 
brute  shall  pass  for  a brute,  however  proud  and 
high.  Do  what  you  can  to  make  high  hfe  i)Ossible 
to  all,  and  to  bring  the  low  life  of  the  world  to  do 
it  homage. 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


IT  has  always  been  the  folly  of  the  wise  to  under- 
value the  wisdom  of  the  common  people.  The 
lawyer  desj)ises  the  jury  that  he  flatters,  and  the  pol- 
itician shows,  in  the  tricks  l)y  which  he  endeavors 
to  deceive  and  mislead  the  people,  the  contempt 
he  feels  for  those  whom  he  affects  to  honor.  All 
the  orators  have  their  little  compliment  for  the 
people — for  what  they  call  “the  hardy  yeomanry,” 
“the  intelligent  masses,”  &c.  The  matter  has 
really  become  conventional,  and  the  compliment 
is  tossed  out  as  a gallant  tosses  a pleasant  word  to 
a pretty  woman,  partly  because  it  is  his  habit,  and 
partly  because  she  expects  it. 

It  was  the  very  wise  and  brilliant  Carlyle  v/lio 
accused  the  British  nation  of  being  mostly  fools; 
yet  it  must  be  admitted  that,  for  a nation  of  fools, 
it  has  got  on  remarkably  well.  Somehow,  British 
commerce,  British  manufactures,  British  agricul- 
ture, British  power,  British  wealth,  British  char- 


184 


THE  NATIONAL  IIEABT 


ities,  and  British  literature,  suggest  magnificent 
national  acquisitions,  resources,  and  character- 
istics. 

An  old-fashioned  New  England  town  will  give 
us,  perhaj^s,  as  good  an  illustration  of  the  wisdom 
of  the  common  people  as  we  can  find.  I presume 
that  there  cannot  be  found  elsewhere,  upon  the 
earth,  communities  so  well  regulated,  so  pure,  so 
equal  and  just  in  all  departments  of  municipal  ad- 
ministration, as  among  some  of  the  older  and  hum- 
bler towns,  of  New  England.  Once  a year  they 
assemble  in  town-meeting.  They  are  usually  for- 
tunate enough  to  possess  one  man  who  under- 
stands parliamentary  usage,  and  presides,  year 
after  year,  as  moderator.  They  vote  their  a^apro- 
priations,  elect  their  own  town-clerk,  selectmen, 
and  school-committee — their  road-surveyors,  fence- 
viewers,  pound-keepers,  and  hog-reeves — and  go 
home.  Among  the  thousand  persons,  more  or  less, 
who  hve  in  the  town,  there  is  not  one  pauper,  not 
one  man  or  v/oman,  or  child  over  six  years  of  age, 
who  cannot  I’cad;  not  one  drunliard,  not  one  place 
where  a drunkard  can  be  made,  and  not  a man  ex- 
cept the  minister  and  the  physician  who  has  had 
anything  more  than  a common-school  education. 
Are  these  men  fools,  or  wise?  How  much  would 
their  condition  be  improved,  think  you,  by  the 
importation  of  brilliant  men  Avho  would  despise 
their  simplicity? 

But  we  can  find  illustrations  of  popular  wisdom 
in  more  important  assemblies  than  New  England 


TRE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


185 


town-meetings.  My  impression  is  that  State  legis- 
latures have  not  been  remarkable,  either  in  New 
England  or  elsewhere,  for  the  native  gifts  or  the 
learning  of  their  members.  Indeed,  it  has  been 
more  than  intimated  to  me  that  the  majority  of 
those  who  find  i)laces  there  are  not  so  dazzhngly 
l.rilhant  that  they  cannot  be  regarded  safely  by 
the  naked  eye.  The  boy  who  emigrated  to  the 
West,  and  wrote  back  to  his  father,  inviting  him  to 
follow,  persuading  him  thereto  by  the  assurance 
that  “mighty  small  men  get  office  out  there,” 
evidently  did  not  understand  the  composition  of 
Eastern  legislatures  as  well  as  his  father  did.  Yet, 
without  learning  and  without  experience,  these 
men  come  together,  and  legislate  for  the  States 
composing  this  Union;  and  it  must  be  confessed— 
nay,  it  may  be  j>roudly  claimed — that,  in  the  main, 
they  do  it  well;  that,  'when  left  to  their  own  good 
sense  and  conscience,  they  do  it  always  well.  Un- 
der the  laws  enacted  by  these  men,  we  have  liberty, 
protection,  and  prosperity;  and  we  shall  find  the  rea- 
son for  this  as  'we  advance  further  in  our  discussion. 

It  must  be  apparent  to  all,  that,  in  the  national 
life,  there  are  certain  men,  institutions,  agencies, 
and  movements,  which  monopolize  the  populartat- 
tention,  and  which  alone  find  record  upon  the  page 
of  history.  Great  men,  political  institutions,  ad- 
ministrations, parties,  wars,  intrigues  of  politicians, 
theories  and  policies  of  government — these  occupy 
the  surface  of  the  national  life;  these  are  what  men 
see  and  talk  about;  these  i^roduce  mateiial  for  the 


186 


TEE  NATIONAL  IIEABT 


newspapers;  these  furnish  the  staple  from  which 
the  historian  weaves  his  varied  record.  In  the  issue 
of  a war,  in  the  result  of  a political  campaign,  in 
the  success  of  a man,  in  the  triumph  of  a policy, 
in  the  progress  of  an  institution,  it  is  our  habit  to 
recognize  the  results  of  independent  agencies  which 
produce  the  sum  of  national  life  and  the  stuff  of 
history,  and  to  lose  sight  of  that  grand  vital  power, 
abiding  in  the  heart  of  the  people,  which  hides  it- 
self by  throwing  to  its  surface  these  shows  which 
cheal  our  attention. 

The  child  that  stands  upon  the  river-bank  and 
sees  a great  steamer  go  by,  sees  only  the  long  and 
graceful  sweep  of  her  decks,  the  revolution  of  her 
wheels,  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  working-beam,  the 
smoke  pouring  from  her  tall  chimneys,  her  crowd 
of  passengers,  and  the  beautiful  flag  that  floats  over 
all.  He  does  not  dream  of  that  heart  of  fire  which 
throbs  in  her  bosom,  without  whose  mighty  pulsa- 
tions the  boat  would  be  only  a mass  of  useless  lum- 
ber. So,  when  we  enter  a garden,  we  only  interest 
ourselves  with  that  portion  of  it  which  occui)ies 
the  sunlight  and  the  air.  Stems  and  foliage  and 
flowers  and  fruits — these  absorb  our  attention: 
while  the  under-world  of  soils  and  roots  and  vital 
chemistries,  in  which  all  the  secrets  of  the  upper 
beauty  hide,  a, re  unthought  of. 

The  heart  of  the  people — the  national  heart — out 
of  this  are  the  issues  of  the  national  life.  We  talk 
of  institutions,  and  policies,  and  state -craft,  and 
international  reactions,  and  imagine  that  we  are 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART, 


187 


toucliing  grand  realities  and  vitalities;  and  while 
we  tallt  the  national  heart  beats  on  and  the  national 
life  flows  on,  and  bears  ns  all  nx3on  its  tide.  There 
.is  probably  no  man  so  nnobserving  as  not  to  have 
noticed  a certain  drift  of  events,  altogether  inde- 
I^endent  of  aj^xDarent  forces, — a certain  drift  that  the 
wisdom  of  the  wisest  cannot  account  for — a di’ift 
that  neither  statesmen  nor  politicians  can  divert  or 
arrest — for  which,  indeed,  they  are  in  no  way  re- 
si^onsible.  Events  march,  or  seem  to  march,  in 
solid  column,  pricldng  each  other  forward  with 
crowding  spears;  and  the  men  and  the  parties 
which  pretend  to  marshal  them,  and  which  have  a 
certain  show  of  marshaling  them,  only  run  with 
them,  or  run  before  them  to  avoid  being  crushed 
beneath  their  feet.  Throughout  the  sad  and  terri- 
ble war  which  still  engages  the  energies  of  this  na- 
tion, there  has  been  nothing  more  remarkable  than 
this  independent  drift  of  events,  baffling  all  at- 
tempts at  prevision,  breaking  up  all  the  schemes 
of  the  poUticians,  making  folly  to-day  of  the  wis- 
dom of  yesterday,  and  showing  how  little  the  ap- 
parent actors  in  the  great  drama  have  had  to  do 
with  its  inspiration,  and  the  order  of  its  combina- 
tions. I recognize  here,  reverently  and  gladly,  the 
jiresidency  of  Providence  over  all  our  national  af- 
fairs, and  the  power  of  Providence  in  them;  but  I 
see,  particularly  in  this  majestic  drift  of  events, 
vv^hich  so  ruthlessly  overthrows  policies  and  proph- 
ecies, and  theories  and  men,  the  tide  of  the  na- 
tional hfe  as  it  flows  forth  from  the  national  heai^t. 


188 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


It  has  its  birth  among  the  aspirations,  the  convic- 
tions, the  affections,  and  the  faith  of  the  American 
people.  It  is  the  product  of  no  man’s  will.  It  is 
not  even  distinctively  the  product  of  the  nation’s 
will.  It  is  the  product  of  forces  starting  as  inde- 
pendently of  volition  as  the  beating  of  the  human 
heart  itself;  and  these  forces,  hke  springs  in  the 
mountain-side,  send  out  their  contributions  to 
create  that  resistless  stream  which  bears  the  freight 
of  history  upon  its  bosom. 

I do  not  go  to  the  heads  of  those  who  compose  a 
New  England  town-meeting  to  find  the  secret  of 
their  wisdom,  but  to  their  hearts.  They  are  right- 
hearted,  and  see  clearly;  they  are  right-hearted, 
and  act  conscientiously.  They  aim  to  do  right,  and 
have  a common  interest  in  doing  right;  and  the 
life  of  the  town  is  that  which  comes  forth  from  the 
heart  of  the  town,  producing  the  natural  results  of 
peace,  order,  and  prosperity.  I do  not  look  for  the 
wisdom  of  our  State  legislatures  among  the  brains 
of  the  legislators.  In  the  laws  and  statutes  of  a 
State,  the  learned  minds  and  practised  hands  of  a 
few  have  only  put  into  form  that  which  the  heart 
of  the  majority  has  pronounced  good.  Mr.  Ban- 
croft, speaking  of  colonial  Connecticut,  says  that 
“the  magistrates  were  sometimes  persons  of  no 
ordinary  endowments,  but,  though  the  gifts  of 
learning  and  genius  were  valued,  the  State  w^as 
content  with  virtue  and  single-mindedness;  and 
the  pubhc  welfare  never  suffered  at  the  hands  of 
plain  men.”  And  what  he  says  of  Connecticut  is 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART, 


189 


true  generally  of  all  the  States.  Plain  men,  in  re- 
sponsible positions,  act  as  they  are  moved  to  act  by 
theii*  hearts,  and  hve  in  a close  and  fruitful  com- 
munion with  conscience.  Sometimes,  designing 
men  may  lead  them  away  from  the  right,  but  they 
always  come  back  to  it  with  renewed  loyalty. 

The  present  period  of  our  national  history  is 
marked  by  such  great  events,  by  such  antagonisms 
of  opinion  in  high  places,  and  by  such  prominence 
of  individual  men,  that  we  are  more  than  ever 
hable  to  forget  the  real  source  of  the  national  life 
and  power,  and  to  judge  shallowly  and  mistakenly 
of  its  developments  and  j)henomena.  We  say, 
that  if  this  or  that  pohcy  shall  be  pursued,  if  this 
or  that  man  succeed,  if  this  or  that  party  prevail, 
if  some  institution  be  saved  or  overthrown,  or  a bat- 
tle be  lost  or  won,  then  shall  we  have  unity,  peace, 
and  prosperity,  or  the  opposite  of  these  ; whereas, 
these  are  not  dependent  u]pon  any  man,  or  institu- 
tion, or  policy,  or  party.  They  must  come,  and 
come  to  stay,  as  the  product  of  permanent  forces, 
starting  in  the  national  heart;  as  the  product  of  an 
inspiring,  moving,  governing,  and  conservative 
power,  whose  fountain-head  is  among  those  affec- 
tions which  are  highest  and  nearest  heaven.  Am- 
bitious men,  and  interested  and  selfish  x^arties,  and 
brute  force,  may  for  a time  pervert  the  legitimate 
issues  of  this  power;  but  it  is  certain,  if  it  save  it- 
self from  perversion,  to  overcome  all  these,  and 
carry  its  quality  into  every  act  and  event  which 
goes  to  make  up  national  history. 


190 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


I propose  to  speak  a few  words  <joncernmg  the 
national  heart,  as  the  residence  of  those  forces 
which  move  and  conserve  the  national  hfe. 

Every  heart  that  is  of  value  to  itself  and  others  is 
identified  with  a home.  There  is,  somewhere,  a 
group  of  hearts  to  which  each  heart  belongs,  or  it 
has  no  strong  hold  upon  the  world — a group  tliat 
is  usually  bound  to  a certain  spot  by  all  its  interests 
and  affections.  A boy  grows  up  to  manhood  in  a 
home,  and,  choosing  to  himself  a companion, 
builds  a new  home  for  himself  and  for  her.  Chil- 
dren are  borne  to  him,  and  at  length  a home-circle 
is  formed,  made  up  of  kindred  hearts,  and  held  to- 
gether by  natural  affection.  Looking  into  this 
home,  we  shall  find  that  all  its  ambitions,  aspira- 
tions, and  industries,  are  inspired  by  this  affection. 
The  husband  strives  to  give  a worthy  home  to  the 
woman  of  his  love,  and  the  wife  returns  his  devo- 
tion with  all  love’s  sympathies  and  ministries, 
while  both  labor  for  the  comfort,  the  education, 
and  the  prosperity  of  their  children,  who,  them- 
selves, are  helpful  toward  the  general  welfare. 
Love  is  the  vital  air  on  which  this  home  hves — on 
which  home  as  an  institution  lives.  It  is  both  mo- 
tive and  satisfaction — insi3iration  and  reward. 

Now  let  each  man  before  me  measui’e,  if  he  can, 
the  influence  of  his  home  affections  upon  his  indi- 
vidual life.  How  much  of  any  sort  of  effort  do  you 
put  forth  that  is  not  inspired,  or  suggested,  or  aid- 
ed, by  your  love  for  the  persons  and  the  things  that 
make  up  your  home?  Where  do  you  look  for  your 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART, 


191 


STreetest  satisfactions?  Where  does  your  life  cen- 
tre? Around  what  spot  does  your  life  revolve? 
All!  when  3"ou  lose  home  and  that  which  home 
liolds,  do  you  not  lose  that  which  hallowed  the 
name  of  country?  that  which  endowed  the  world  i 
vith  value?  Nay,  do  you  not  lose  that  which 
made  you  v aluable  to  youi’self? 

Well,  a neiglihorhood  is  made  up  of  homes,  and, 
in  the  main,  one  home  is  like  another  in  its  charac- 
teristic inhuence  upon  the  individual  life.  A town 
or  a countiy  is  made  up  of  neighborhoods,  and  a 
Stade  is  composed  of  counties  and  towns,  and  a 
group  of  States  constitutes  the  federal  Union.  So 
we  come,  by  a very  short  path,  as  you  see,  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  nation  is  only  a grand  aggrega- 
tion of  homes,  and  that  the  mainspring  of  the  na- 
tional life  is  the  love  that  inspires  the  home-life. 
A nation  is  a thing  that  lives  and  acts  like  a man, 
and  men  are  the  particles  of  which  it  is  composed. 
If  these  particles  obey  the  law  of  their  home-life — 
each  one  pervaded  and  controlled  by  the  power  of 
home-affection — then  it  is  easy  to  see  that  home-life 
enters  very  essentially  into  the  constitution  of  the 
national  life.  We  can  understand,  at  least,  that 
we  are  not  to  look  for  the  staple  of  national  life  in 
cabinets  or  congresses,  in  armies  or  institutions. 
We  can  understand,  at  least,  that  in  the  homes  of 
the  nation — under  the  control  of  home-affections — 
the  nation  lives. 

We  often  wonder  how  it  is  that  a nation  whose 
government  has  made  it  responsible  for  great 


192 


TEE  NATIONAL  BEART 


crimes  can  survive  those  crimes — how  a nation  de- 
bauched in  public  morals,  and  corrupted  by,  the 
prevalence  of  personal  vice  in  high  places,  can  live 
— ^why  it  does  not  fall  into  anarchy  by  the  weight 
of  its  guilt  pressing  upon  its  rottenness.  It  is  be- 
cause the  great  national  heart  is  not  guilty,  and  be- 
cause the  national  life  is  not  in  the  government  at 
all.  No  nation  can  be  destroyed  while  it  possesses 
a good  home-hfe.  My  lawn  cannot  be  spoiled  so 
long  as  the  grass  is  gTeen,  no  matter,  how  many 
trees  may  be  prostrated — no  matter  how  many 
flowers  may  be  trampled  under  feet  by  unclean 
beasts.  The  essential  life  and  beauty  of  the  lawn 
are  in  the  grass,  and  not  in  the  trees,  and  not  in 
the  flowers,  and  not  in  any  creature  that  passes 
over  it;  and  the  life  of  a nation  is  not  in  pohtical 
institutions,  and  not  in  political  parties,  and  not  in 
political  or  great  men,  but  in  the  love-inspired 
home-hfe  of  the  people. 

Where  this  home-hfe  thrives  best,  there  patriot- 
ism— another  offspring  of  the  national  heart — 
grows  thriftiest.  The  love  of  country  is  one  of  the 
purest  and  most  powerful  passions  of  the  heart,  and 
is  the  constant  companion  of  the  love  of  home. 
Indeed,  country  is  home  in  the  largest  sense,  and 
the  nation  is  the  great  family  of  which  all  of  us  are 
members.  Country  is  the  home  of  home  itself — 
the  setting  of  the  jewel  which  we  Avear  next  our 
hearts.  We  claim  as  kindred  all  who  were  born 
under  our  OAvn  sky,  all  who  are  loyal  to  the  same 
government,  aU  who  sharo  the  same  national  lot, 


THE  NATIONAL  HEABT. 


193 


and  all  who  cheer  the  same  flag:  and  we  love  the 
land  which  gives  them  and  ns  a common  home.  I 
saw  that  this  love  of  country  and  this  national  affec- 
tion are  only  love  of  home  and  love  of  family  en- 
larged, and  that  these  loves  always  live  and  thrive 
together.  The  man  who  loves  home  best,  and 
loves  it  most  unselfishly,  loves  his  country  best. 

Patriotism  is  simple  and  trustful,  like  family  af- 
fection; and  its  subordinate  place  in  the  ordinary 
life  of  the  nation  is  seen  in  the  fact  that  it  rarely 
shows  itself  exce^Dt  in  the  national  emergencies. 
When  the  country  is  endangered,  or  insulted,  or  out 
raged,  then  we  learn  something  of  the  strength  and 
the  universahty  of  patriotism,  and  then  we  learn 
something  of  its  inspiring  and  motive  power  in  na- 
tional action.  In  recent  years,  we  have  seen  it  rouse 
our  slumbering  nation  to  arms,  and  lift  our  startled 
and  distracted  people  into  harmony  and  unity  in 
the  national  defence.  Truth,  presented  to  the  in- 
tellect, and  enforced  with  eloquence  the  divine st, 
would  only  have  bred  difference  and  disturbance, 
when  the  voice  of  that  first  hostile  cannon,  turned 
against  the  flag  that  floated  over  Port  Sumter, 
reached  the  national  heart;  and  the  nation,  casting 
off  every  fetter,  stood  up  as  one  man,  and  called 
for  vengeance.  This  was  at  a time  when  there 
were  fear  and  trembling  in  high  places;  when  trea- 
son had  tainted  all  the  governmental  departments; 
when  there  was  neither  army  nor  navy;  when 
statesmen,  insomuch  as  they  could  see  further  than 
other  men,  were  in  despair.  It  was  at  a time  when 


194 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


popular  apatliy  left  no  ground  hard  enough  to 
build  a policy  upon.  Ah!  how  this  wound  of  the 
national  affections — this  insult  to  the  object  of  the 
nation’s  worship — this  blow  at  its  unsuspecting  loy- 
alty— inspired  its  life,  and  shattered  the  bands  by 
which  it  had  been  bound  so  long!  I know  of  noth- 
ing more  sublime  than  this  sudden  waking  of  a na- 
tion through  an  outrage  upon  the  object  of  its  love; 
and  it  will  not  be  possible  for  the  muse  of  Histoiy 
to  measure  its  inspiring  power  in  the  great  events 
W'hicli  have  followed.  That  can  only  be  found  re- 
corded in  blood  on  a thousand  battle-fields,  and  in 
tears  in  a million  of  sacrificial  homes. 

Love  of  country  does  not  burn  with  so  steady 
and  so  reliable  a flame  as  love  of  home.  It  is  not 
so  constant  a motive  in  the  national  life.  In  the 
absorption  of  home-pursuits,  and  the  selfish  strug- 
gle for  gold  and  power  and  fame,  the  national 
heart  forgets,  or  is  prone  to  forget,  its  iDatriotic 
fervor,  and  to  consent  to  the  subordination  of  patri- 
otic motives;  but  when  danger  comes,  there  is  noth- 
ing it  will  not  dare  and  do  to  defend  the  object  of  its 
affections.  Patriotism — inferior  to  Christianity  as 
it  is — ^lias  had  a longer  fife  than  Christianity  and  a 
broader  hold  upon  mankind,  and  numbers  a hun- 
dred martyrs  where  Christianity^  can  claim  but  one. 
And  patriotism,  let  me  insist,  is  not  confined  to 
the  noble  few.  It  is  the  commonwealth.  I beheve 
in  the  patriotism  of  the  American  peo|3le — the  loy- 
alty of  the  national  heart.  It  may  be  tampered 
with  and  deceived  and  misled,  but  it  fives  as  an  ir- 
resistible motive -power  in  the  national  fife. 


I HE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


195 


It  is  the  habit  of  some  over-charitable  people  to 
say  that,  in  the  iDresent  struggle  between  tha  loyal 
people  of  this  country  and  those  in  rebellion,  the 
latter  are  actuated  by  just  as  good  motives  as  the 
former.  This  may  be  true  to  a very  hmited  ex- 
tent; but  it  is  notorious  that  the  gxand  motive- 
povver  of  the  rebellion  is  hate:  and  hate  is  not  so 
good  a motive  as  love,  and,  thank  God!  it  is  not  so 
powerful  a motive  as  love.  I see  arrayed  on  one 
side  of  this  struggle  those  who  hate  d-emocracy, 
who  hate  labor,  who  hate  the  idea  of  human  equal- 
ity, wdio  hate  their  country  and  its  constitution, 
w^ho  hate  the  political  mother  that  bore  them — the 
mother  under  whose  fostering  care  they  had  lived 
in  wealth,  independence,  and  peace — and  who, 
more  than  they  ha*te  democracy,  and  more  than 
they  hate  free  institutions,  and  more  than  they 
hate  their  country,  hate  the  North  and  the  univer- 
sal Yankee.  If  you  can  find  any  love  that  operates 
as  a motive  of  rebellion  besides  the  love  of  power 
and  the  love  of  slavery,  you  will  be  more  successful 
than  I have  been. 

It  is  patent  that  the  motive-power  of  the  rebel- 
lion is  hate — hate,  fostered  and  fed  in  every  possi- 
ble way.  It  breathes  its  foul  breath  through  the 
rebel  newspapers,  it  finds  utterance  in  every 
ppeech;  it  comes  forth  wdth  bitterest  venom  from 
the  lips  of  women;  it  pollutes  and  burns  the  hearts 
and  tongues  of  even  the  little  children.  Extin- 
guish the  hatred  that  glows  in  the  heart  of  the  re- 
bellion to-day,  and  you  extinguish  the  rebellion  it- 
self. 


196 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART 


Now,  can  any  sane  man  think  of  comparing  this 
motive  with  that  which  has  poured  out  for  the  na- 
tional redemption  its  untold  millions  of  treasure, 
and  its  hundred  thousand  lives  ? Have  the  men 
whom  we  have  sent  to  Southern  camps  and  South- 
ern battle-fields  and  Southern  graves  been  moved 
to  enlist  by  feelings  of  enmity  toward  those  against 
whom  they  went  to  fight  ? Has  there  been  a bitter 
hatred  of  the  Southron  in  the  Northern  heart  ? 
Has  it  not  been  notorious,  not  only  here  but  abroad, 
that  the  loyal  people  of  the  country — especially 
those  of  the  North — have  carried  no  bitterness  of 
feeling  into  this  contest  ? I tell  you  that  it  was 
only  because  love  of  country  was  stronger  than 
brotherly  sympathy,  that  the  nation  was  not  ruined 
years  ago.  Our  troops  will  not,  cannot,  be  bitter  ; 
and  I have  no  question  that,  if  the  armies  of  the 
rebellion  should  give  up  their  cause  to-day,  our 
loyal  forces  could  not  be  restrained  from  the  ex- 
pression of  their  fraternal  feelings  for  them.  We 
have  fought  for  the  country ; we  have  fought  for 
the  flag  ; and  love  has  been  the  motive-power  with 
us  in  all  the  contest ; and  just  as  certain  as  God  is 
stronger  than  all  the  powers  of  evil,  and  truth  is 
stronger  than  falsehood,  and  virtue  is  stronger  than 
vice,  is  love  stronger  than  hate  in  any  contest. 
One  is  supremely,  everlastingly  positive,  allied  to 
God  and  heaven ; the  other  is  infernally  negative, 
born  of  hell  and  bound  for  it. 

There  is  still  another  motive-force  in  national  Hfe 
which  claims  our  consideration,  and  this  is  religion. 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


197 


I am  inclined  to  tliink  tliat  we  nnderyalue  tlie 
power  of  religion  upon  the  heart  of  this  nation. 
In  saving  this,  I contemplate  no  narrow  definition 
of  religion,  though  I embrace  in  it,  of  course,  all 
the  forms  of  Christianity.  Beligion  existed  before 
Christianity,  and  of  course  can  exist  outside  of 
Christianity.  It  may  exist  without  any  written 
revelation  of  God,  flowing  naturally  and  neces- 
sarily from  the  constitution  of  the  human  soul,  and 
its  rationally  apprehended  relations  to  the  Father- 
Soul.  We  know  there  are  multitudes  of  men  and 
women  who  never  enter  a Christian  church — who 
have  no  adequate  Christian  knowledge — who  do  not 
pretend  to  be  Christians  ; yet  who,  through  the  in- 
direct teachings  of  Christianity,  and  the  outwork- 
ing of  their  rehgious  natures,  entertain  the  thought 
of  a Supreme  God  within  whose  providential  reign 
they  come  ; a God  to  whom  they  pray  in  times  of 
peril,  and  to  whom  they  owe  a certain  sort  or  de- 
gree of  obedience.  This  religion  may  be  shallow, 
and  it  doubtless  is  so.  There  may  be  very  little  of 
love  in  it — very  httle  of  worship  in  it — very  little 
of  comfort  and  joy  in  it ; but,  shallow  and  loveless 
and  joyless  as  it  may  be,  there  is  something  in  it 
which  gives  significance  to  the  word  dut^.  It 
recognizes  and  acknowledges  certain  duties,  grow- 
ing out  of  the  relations  sustained  by  man  to  man 
and  men  to  God ; and  this  religion,  shallow  but 
broad,  embraces  a nation.  It  may  be  that  the 
highest  form  it  ever  reaches  is  a simple  sense  of 
duty,  but  this  sense  of  duty  is  strong  and  universal. 


198 


TEE  NATIONAL  HEART 


As  I understand  the  word  duty,  it  always  has  direct 
or  indirect  reference  to  God  and  everlasting  good. 
We  do  that  which  is  due  from  us  to  God — due  from 
us  to  others — due  from  us  to  our  country — because 
God’s  constitution  of  things  makes  it  due,  and  God’s 
constitution  of  us  makes  us  feel  it  to  be  so,  and  urges 
us  to  a practical  acknowledgment  of  the  fact. 

Now  permit  me  to  illustrate  the  peculiar  power 
of  this  sense  of  duty,  as  a motive,  from  our  recent 
national  history.  I am  aware  that,  like  patriotism, 
it  often  sleeps  in  times  of  peace,  but,  when  danger 
comes,  it  springs  to  its  office  with  an  energy  that 
is  really  sublime.  At  the  opening  of  the  present 
war,  when  all  the  country  was  a camping-ground, 
and  volunteers  were  rushing  to  rendezvous  by  tens 
and  hundreds  of  thousands,  there  was  one  question 
which  nearly  every  man  was  called  upon  to  answer; 
and  that  question  received  but  one  reply — “ What 
induced  you  to  enhst  ?”  This  question,  put  to  rude 
and  rough  men  by  sympathetic  friends  and  visitors 
— ^put  to  men  who  were  often  profane  and  intem- 
perate— put  to  men  who  had  never  been  moved  to 
do  a heroic  deed  before — ^put  to  the  simple-hearted 
boy  from  the  farm,  the  delicate-handed  clerk  from 
the  counting-room — elicited  but  this  response : 
“ somebody  must  gol^  It  was  not  the  love  of  home 
entirely  that  made  this  '‘must  go,”  for  many  of 
them  had  no  home  that  they  loved,  or  that  loved 
them.  It  was  not  patriotism  alone,  for  many  of 
these  men  had  little  that  bound  them  to  them  coun- 
try, and  feeble  interest  in  its  prosperity  and  safety. 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


199 


This  “must  go”  sprang  from  a sense  of  duty,  and 
this  sense  of  duty  was  born  of  that  which  ^vas  es- 
sentially rehgion.  It  was  so  imperative  that  it 
gave  them  no  peace  until  the  uniform  was  on  and 
the  march  begun.  Now  this  religion  may  not  have 
been  pure  and  powerful  enough — may  not  have 
been  inteUigent  enough — to  produce  in  these  men 
a good  personal  character,  but  appealed  to  by  this 
gTeat  emergency,  it  made  this  great  and  beautiful 
response.  If  there  are  any  who  doubt  the  essen- 
tially rehgious  character  of  this  response,  they  will, 
at  least,  admit  that  the  nation’s  hfe  was  indebted 
to  the  nation’s  heart  for  it,  and  not  to  its  intellect. 

“Somebody  must  go.”  Here  was  a full  recog- 
nition of  duty,  and  this  recognition  has  placed  two 
millions  of  men  in  fields  of  action  which  now  hold 
five  hundred  thousand  of  them  in  the  sleep  that 
knows  no  Tvaldng.  Somebody  go. Amer- 
ican, German,  Irishman — Catholic  and  Protestant 
— all  gave  the  same  suggestive  reply;  and  in  that 
sense  of  duty  which  dictated  it  lay  the  national 
safety. 

But  it  can  be  hardly  necessary  to  illustrate  the 
power  of  religion  in  national  hfe  in  a country  whose 
origin  and  history  are,  themselves,  the  most  strik- 
ing illustrations  of  it.  It  was  religion  that  directed 
the  Puritans  to  Plymouth  Rock.  It  wns  religion 
that  inspired  and  sustained  them  throughout  their 
colonial  struggle.  Rehgion  constituted  so  much 
of  their  hfe,  that  it  reaUy  ordered  the  afiairs  of  the 
State.  It  had  been,  in  other  countries,  the  habit 


200 


THE  NATIONAL  HEABT. 


of  the  State  to  take  religion  under  its  patronage, 
that  it  might  be  regulated  and  used  for  State  pur- 
poses: but  here,  religion  was  the  dominant  power, 
and  the  State  was  used  for  rehgious  purposes,  as 
an  instrument  of  the  church.  Religion  found  its 
way  into  every  statute,  and  every  municipal  regula- 
tion, and  every  political  institution.  Before  home- 
life  was  well  estabhshed,  and  while  yet  the  country 
waited  to  be  loved  and  to  be  made  worthy  of  pa- 
triotic affection,  religion  was  the  ever-present,  ever- 
prevalent  motive.  Ministers  stood  side  by  side  in 
public  honor  with  magistrates,  and  the  people  were 
governed  by  them  in  harmonious  companionship. 

When,  in  critical  moods,  we  look  back  upon  those 
men  and  those  times,  we  find  much  uncharitable- 
ness to  condemn,  much  ignorance  to  lament,  and 
much  superstition  to  pity;  but  we  know,  after  all, 
that  the  reigning  motive  of  all  that  early  life  was 
the  rehgion  of  Jesus  Christ.  It  was  this  religion 
that  crystalhzed  into  our  political,  educational,  and 
charitable  institutions.  There  is  not  a State  con- 
stitution in  this  Union — there  is  not  a college  or  a 
pubhc  school — that  does  not  testify,  directly  or  in- 
directly, to  the  power  of  rehgion  as  the  motive  of 
the  early  life  of  the  nation. 

And  here  permit  me  a single  word  on  the  subject 
of  Puritanism,  about  whose  mahgn  influence  in  na- 
tional affairs  we  hear  so  much  in  these  latter  days, 
from  the  lips  of  mountebanks  and  demagogues  and 
traitors.  Of  what  crimes  does  Puritanism  stand 
convicted  before  the  bar  of  History?  It  persecuted 


THE  NATIONAL  HEAR!. 


201 


Quakers  and  liung  witches,  and  did  both  in  the 
fear  of  God  and  for  His  glory — which,  perhaps,  was 
the  most  lamentable  part  of  the  matter.  What 
else  did  Puritanism  do?  It  planted  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  nations  of  the  world  in  the  wilder- 
ness. It  gave  that  nation  a love  of  freedom  and 
justice,  a regard  for  the  moral  government  of  God, 
an  open  Bible  and  a free  pen  and  tongue.  It  im- 
pregnated a continent  with  the  democratic  idea, 
and  the  continent  has  borne  to  it  a great  family 
of  repubhcs.  It  built  the  school-house  by  the  side 
of  the  church,  and  the  college  among  the  school- 
houses,  and  educated,  and  taught  the  world  how 
to  educate,  the  common  people.  It  governed  so- 
cial hfe  by  the  rules  of  Christian  propriety,  and 
carried  its  rehgion  into  every  sphere  where  religion 
has  an  office  to  perform.  When  the  oppressor 
came  to  extort  tribute,  and  crush  the  free  spirit  of 
the  nation,  it  ''rose  the  first  in  rebellion;  and 
throughout  the  long  years  of  the  Bevolution  it 
poured  out  its  blood  like  water  for  the  national 
salvation.  It  sent  from  a single  little  State — the 
State  that  holds  the  everlasting  rock  on  which  it 
first  planted  its  foot — eighty  thousand  men  to  the 
Be  volutionary  war;  and  I stand  here  as  the  son  of 
a Puritan,  and  of  Puritan  New  England,  to  declare 
with  grateful  pride  that  the  triumph  then  achieved 
over  the  mother-countiy  was  not  only  a victory  of 
the  Puiitans,  but  a victory  of  Puritan  ideas.  A 
belief  in  the  right  to  hfe,  hberty,  and  the  pursuit 
of  happiness — this  is  Puritanism.  A behef  that 


202 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


God  rules  in  tlie  affairs  of  men;  that  man  has  a 
right  to  himself  that  cannot  be  bought  and  sold 
without  sin;  that  the  golden  rule  is  the  best  rule; 
and  that  loyalty  to  freedom  and  a free  government 
is  laudable,  and  that  traitors  ought  to  be  hanged — 
this  is  Puritanism. 

And  New  England  is  to  be  left  out  in  the  cold 
for  its  Puritanism!  New  England  cold!  Why, 
the  only  way  New  England  has  kept  comfortably 
cool  for  the  last  half  century  has  been  through  her 
contact  with  other  States,  of  great  conducting 
power.  Leave  New  England  out,  and  she  would 
come  up  to  a white  heat  in  twelve  months.  But 
you  cannot  leave  New  England  out;  you  cannot 
leave  Puritanism  out.  New  England  is  in;  Puri- 
tanism is  in — mixed  in;  and  so  long  as  they  repre- 
sent freedom,  and  pure  morals,  and  patriotism, 
they  will  stay  in. 

But  it  is  not  necessary  to  refer  to  the  general 
rehgious  sentiment  of  the  nation,  or  to  historical 
Puritanism,  to  learn  that  religion  is  a powerful  mo- 
tive in  the  national  life.  Its  Christian  spire  rises 
wherever  a hamlet  gathers.  The  cities  are  crow^ded 
with  its  costly  architecture,  and  into  these  churches 
gathers  the  best  and  most  highly  vitahzed  so- 
ciety of  the  nation.  The  Christian  pulpit  is  the 
greatest  moral  lever  of  the  age.  It  holds  the  high- 
est culture  of  the  country  and  the  best  intellect, 
and  its  power  cannot  be  measured. 

The  love  of  home  is  strong,  and  the  love  of  coun- 
try is  strong;  but  the  love  of  God  is  supreme,  and 


TEE  NATIONAL  HEART, 


203 


fertilizes  and  vitalizes  all  other  loves.  Ah!  how 
little  do  the  unthinking  reahze  the  power  of  the 
religion  taught  by  a free  Bible  and  a free  pulpit  in 
such  a nation  as  this!  Think  what  it  is  to  have 
twenty  thousand  men  in  twenty  thousand  pulpits, 
proclaiming  every  week  to  twenty  thousand  congre- 
gations, made  up  of  the  most  influential  society  of 
the  nation,  the  truths  of  the  everlasting  gospel; 
preaching  justice  and  purity  and  truthfulness,  and 
love  and  freedom  and  faith;  enforcing  the  claims 
of  duty  in  all  the  departments  of  life;  giving  con- 
stant recognition  to  the  reality  of  a future  existence 
and  drawing  motives  from  it;  and  exhorting  to 
daily  communion  with  Him  who  is  the  source  of 
life  and  the  spring  of  inspiration!  Can  such  a 
power  as  this  be  measured? — a power  with  the 
highest  spiritual  forces  in  it — with  God  and  eternity 
in  it,  and  love  as  deep  and  broad  as  both?  Think 
what  it  is  to  have  a thousand  presses  busy  with  the 
produation  of  Bibles  and  religious  newspapers  and 
Christian  books  and  tracts!  Think  of  twenty  thou- 
sand Sunday-schools  and  a hundred  thousand 
other  schools  in  which  prayer  is  offered  daily  and 
more  or  less  rehgious  instruction  given,  and  of  a 
hundi’ed  colleges,  every  one  of  which  is  in  Chris- 
tian hands  in  the  pursuit  of  Christian  ends,  and 
then  you  can  only  begin  to  get  an  idea  of  the 
power  of  rehgion  in  our  national  life. 

I have  thus  tried  to  exhibit  to  you  the  fact  that 
the  heart  is  the  motive-power  in  the  national  life, 
and  that  this  life  is  essentially  love  and  love’s  nat- 


204 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


iiral  offspring — that  in  the  love  of  home,  and  the 
love  of  country,  and  the  love  of  God,  the  nation 
holds  all  the  motive-forces  of  its  being.  The  na- 
tional heart  is  the  birthplace  of  all  generous  na- 
tional enthusiasms,  all  worthy  aspirations,  all  noble 
heroisms,  and  through  it  everything  divine  in  the 
national  life  is  breathed.  A government  may  exist 
without  love  in  it,  and  it  may  rule  a nation  without 
love  in  it;  but  no  nation  can  hve,  in  itself,  with 
the  power  of  self-government,  self-development, 
and  self-preservation,  save  as  its  hfe  starts  in, 
and  is  fed  by,  its  heart. 

We  are  naturally  desirous  of  the  spread  of  re- 
publican institutions  over  the  world;  but  we  may 
rest  certain  that  they  will  spread  no  faster  than  the 
hearts  of  the  nations  are  prepared  for  them.  The 
only  reason  why  a republic  cannot  live  in  Borne 
and  France  is,  that  the  hearts  of  those  nations  are 
not  capable  of  creating  and  sustaining  a repubhc — 
that  they  are  not  under  those  motive-forces  of  love 
which  produce  a repubhc,  or  any  form  of  self-or- 
ganized national  life.  The  heart  of  France,  for 
instance,  unless  I greatty  mistake  it,  does  not  pos- 
sess that  home-love,  that  patriotism,  and  that  love 
of  God,  whose  natural  outgrowth  and  expression 
is  republicanism.  When  the  heart  of  France  wins 
those  possessions,  the  imperial  crown  will  tumble, 
and  France  will  become  a repubhc  without  essay 
of  arms,  or  effort  of  wiU.  France  is  fuh,  even  to- 
day, of  repubhcan  theory.  Nothing  can  bo  more 
radical  than  the  doctrines  of  popular  rights  and 


THE  NATIONAL  HEAHT. 


205 


seK-government  tauglit  by  some  of  tlie  brightest 
and  most  influential  minds  of  France.  Indeed, 
the  head  of  France  has  been  repubhcan  for  years; 
but  it  takes  something  more  than  heads  and  hands 
to  make  and  sustain  a repubhc.  Look  at  the  old 
republic  of  Mexico,  and  see  how  it  has  died  out  at 
the  heart.  Its  home-life  had  become  poor,  its 
patriotism  had  been  narrowed  down  to  partisanship, 
and  its  rehgion  was  in  dead  forms  and  dead 
churches,  and  not  in  the  hearts  of  the  people. 
When  Mexico  died  as  a repubhc,  she  died  simply 
because  her  heart  was  dead,  and  because  she  could 
not  exist  longer  as  a repubhc.  Venice  died  at  the 
heart,  and  though  events  over  which  she  had  no 
control  were  busy  with  her  destiny,  they  hardly 
hastened  her  fah.  In  the  striking  language  of  Mr. 
Euskin:  ‘‘By  the  inner  burning  of  her  own  pas- 
sions, as  fatal  as  the  fiery  rain  of  Gomorrah,  she 
was  consumed  from  her  place  among  the  nations; 
and  her  ashes  are  choking  the  channels  of  the  dead, 
salt  sea.  ” 

And  here  I am  led  naturally  to  speak  of  the  na- 
tional heart  as  the  conservative  power  of  the  na- 
tional life.  You  'svill  see  that  my  subject  is  a diffi- 
cult one  to  divide — that  is,  it  is  difficult,  with  my 
view  of  the  subject,  to  separate  for  consideration 
the  motive  and  conservative  forces  of  national  life. 
The  winds  and  tides  that  give  ceaseless  motion  to 
the  sea  are  also  the  conservative  forces  of  the  sea. 
Its  constant  sweetness  is  the  product  mainly  of  its 
constant  motion.  The  vital  force  in  the  human 


206 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART 


body  wliicli  gives  it  the  power  to  act  upon  matter 
is  the  same  force  which  preserves  that  body  from 
decay.  It  is  thus  in  national  hfe.  The  heart  is 
the  motive-power,  and  it  is  also  the  conservative 
power,  through  identical  channels  of  operation; 
but  the  politics  of  the  day  give  us  our  words,  and 
we  must  see  how  much  meaning  there  is  in  them. 
There  is  an  idea  that  the  conservative  forces  of  our 
nation  are  entirely  distinct  from  the  motive  forces, 
and  we  consequently  hear  of  conservatism,  and 
conservative  influences,  and  conseiwative  men. 
There  has  been  a feeling  afloat  that  this  nation  is 
in  great  need  of  being  saved  by  somebody,  or  some- 
thing; and  there  is  a class  of  people  who  have  writ- 
ten and  talked  and  engaged  in  associated  action 
with  reference  to  an  outside  scheme  of  salvation, 
under  the  name  of  conservatives.  There  are  others 
that  do  not  call  themselves  by  this  name,  who  look 
for  the  national  preservation  to  powers  that  do  not 
inhere  in  the  national  life. 

I think,  for  instance,  that  many  of  us  have  been 
looking  throughout  all  this  war  for  a great  man — a 
great  leader — bearing  his  patent  of  nobility  and 
sign  of  authority  on  his  forehead,  and  taking  the 
national  salvation  into  his  own  hands.  I have  not 
seen  him:  have  you?  Why  have  we  not  seen  him? 
Because  we  did  not  need  him.  We  have  seen 
good  men,  honest  men,  honorable  men,  who  did 
their  duty,  and  who  were  a fair  expression  of  the 
national  heart;  but  the  great,  the  commanding 
man,  has  not  come,  and  would  not  be  heeded  if  he 


JIIE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


207 


had.  Great  men  save  feeble  nations  by  harmoniz- 
ing  their  will  and  concentrating  their  power;  but 
om’s  is  not  a feeble  nation,  its  will  is  sufiiciently 
harmonized,  and  its  poAver  is  suiliciently  concen- 
trated. The  nation  is  able  to  take  care  of  itse'lf, 
and  has  its  conservative  ^po^Yev  in  the  sources  of  its 
hfe.  Still  the  call  for  a great  man  is  kept  up,  and 
the  new'spapers  have  said  ‘Go  here,”  and  “lo 
there;”  and  politicians  have  bruited  several  distinct 
discoveries  of  the  genuine  article;  but,  to  use  the 
street-slang  of  the  day,  the  people  “don’t  see  it.” 
They  have  no  special  anxiety  to  see  it.  They  are 
on  the  right  track,  and  know  Avhat  they  want. 
They  need  only  honest  and  efficient  men  to  execute 
their  will.  Are  we  willing,  at  this  date  of  our  na- 
tional hfe,  to  trust  ourselves  in  the  hands  of  a great 
man — to  be  led  by  him — to  be  moulded  by  him — 
to  be  saved  by  him,  in  his  way?  Are  Ave  become 
so  weak,  so  ignorant,  so  degraded,  as  to  be  looking 
for  a great  man  to  save  us?  God  -forbid!  and  God 
forbid  (I  speak  it  reverently  and  earnestly)  that 
any  great  man  rise  to  take  the  nation’s  Avork  out  of 
the  nation’s  hands! 

There  are  some,  I suppose,  Avho  are  honest  in 
the  belief  that  the  nation  is  to  be  saved  by  party 
loohtics.  We  judge  thus  l)y  the  resolutions  passed 
at  their  conventions,  and  by  the  tenor  of  their 
speeches  and  their  neAvspapers.  We  hear  not  un- 
frequently  of  a.ssemblies  of  leading  i^oliticians  in 
Washington  or  Ncav  York,  which  seem  to  be  de- 
voted to  the  business  of  saving  the  nation — in  their 


208 


TEE  NATIONAL  HEABT 


way.  One  would  imagine,  from  the  airs  they  put 
on,  that  the  life  of  the  nation  was  in  their  hands, 
or  that  it  had  no  life  independent  of  party  poUtics. 
We  have  a great  crisis,  as  you  know,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  every  national  election,  in  which  the  na- 
tional salvation  is  understood  to  depend  on  the 
triumph  of — all  parties.  First  and  last  aU  parties 
have  succeeded,  and  first  and  last  aU  parties  have 
been  defeated,  and  still  the  nation  fives;  and  it  has 
manifested  more  genuine  vitality,  with  a third  of 
its  subjects  in  rebeUion,  than  it  ever  did  while  all 
were  united. 

The  idea  of  putting  a Living,  intelligent,  power- 
ful nation  into  the  keeping — ^into  the  conservative 
embrace — of  a few  lean  party  men,  the  majority  of 
whom  are  working  for  joower  or  for  pay,  is  just  as 
ridiculous  as  the  thought  of  a great  army — whose 
salvation  is  in  itself,  if  it  is  anywhere — consenting 
to  be  led  by  a band  of  camp-followers  and  sutlers 
who  had  volunteered  to  save  it  from  destruction. 

No  nation  ever  conserved  its  fife  by  or  through 
a policy.  A policy  may  modify  the  issues  of  na- 
tional fife  somewhat,  and  have  a reactionary  effect 
upon  the  fife  itself;  but  a mere  policy  has  no  fife 
in  it,  to  bestow  upon  anything.  Most  nations  five 
—indeed,  most  nations  always  have  lived — ^in  spite 
of  the  policy  imposed  upon  them.  A national 
policy  is  only  a way  of  national  living.  The  fife  of 
a stream  does  not  depend  upon  the  way  of  its  flow- 
ing. It  may  be  turned  by  artificial  means  out  of 
its  old  channel,  and  then  turned  back  again,  and 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


209 


then  diverted  into  other  channels;  but  these 
changes  do  not  diminish  the  volume  of  the  stream, 
nor  hinder  it  a day  from  finding  the  ocean  to  which 
it  tends.  So  a party  pohcy  may  change  the  direc- 
tion of  a nation’s  life,  and  modify  for  a time  its 
minor  issues:  but  it  has  no  power  to  save  that  life 
— ^no  conservative  power.  The  nation  carries  its 
salvation  in  its  own  strong  heart,  and  not  in  the 
pocket  of  any  party. 

I do  not  pretend  that  one  policy  is  as  good  as 
another,  or  offer  the  opinion  that  it  makes  no  dif- 
ference what  party  manages  the  government:  on 
the  contrary,  I think  that  the  mode  of  national  Hfe 
is  of  very  great  importance.  I simply  hold  that  it 
is  not  of  vital  importance.  So  far  is  the  nation 
from  having  its  hfe  in  a party,  or  a policy,  that  all 
parties  and  pohcies  have  their  hfe  in  the  nation. 

Ah  parties  pretend  to  conservatism,  in  one  way 
or  another — conservatism  as  they  understand  it; 
and  we  find  in  them  aU,  and  sometimes  outside  of 
them  all,  a class  of  men  who  profess  to  be  distinc- 
tively conservative.  Exactly  what  they  mean  by 
conservatism  does  not  appear,  but — they — are — 
well,  they  are  conservative.  They  are  general  dis- 
senters, protestants,  fault-finders,  critics.  Many  of 
them  are  bankrupt  pohticians;  some  have  very  stiff 
backs  and  very  sore  heads;  some  have  very  supxDle 
backs  and  very  soft  heads;  most  of  them,  for  some 
X^rivate  reason,  don’t  beheve  in  x^arty  pohtics  at  all, 
but  would  hke  to  belong  to  a party  which  is  not  a 
party,  with  pohtics  which  are  not  x^ohtics.  They 


210 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


usually  dine  satisfactorily,  wear  good  clothes,  and 
have  a httle  something  invested  in  stocks.  They 
are  in  favor  of  things  as  they  are,  with  one  or  two 
trifling  exceptions.  They  would  hke  to  have  all 
radicals  and  reformers  hanged.  They  cherish  an 
abiding  affection  for  every  good,  old-fashioned, 
comfortable,  respectable  wrong,  and  can  have  no 
patience  with  those  who  are  bent  on  disturbing  it. 
I may  have  been  ]peculiarly  unfortunate  in  my  field 
of  observation,  but  I have  never  known  an  out-and- 
out,  genuine  conservative  to  be  on  the  humane  side 
of  anything;  and,  to-day,  he  is  notoriously  bent  on 
saving  that  which  alone  brings  the  nation  into 
danger — saving  that  which,  for  its  hideous  crimes 
against  humanity,  against  hberty,  against  the  peace 
and  dignity  of  this  nation,  against  the  loyal  and 
patriotic  blood  of  the  American  people,  ought  to 
be  destroyed.  His  peculiar  affection  for  the  Con- 
stitution of  his  country  seems  to  be  inspired  mainly 
by  the  clause  which  protects  those  who  have  spit 
upon  that  Constitution,  and  trampled  it  under 
their  feet. 

This  sort  of  conservatism  v/ould  save  the  patient 
by  saving  the  ulcer  that  gnaws  his  flesh;  would 
save  the  ship  by  saving  the  barnacles  that  hinder 
her  way  through  the  water  and  drag  her  down- 
ward; would  save  the  tree  by  saving  the  caterpil- 
lars that  consume  its  foliage.  It  believes  that 
ulcers  are  angels,  and  barnacles  blessings,  and  that 
caterpillars  have  a constitutional  right  to  be  nui- 
Bances.  It  distrusts — ^nay,  it  does  not  recognize  at 


JEE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


211 


all — the  power  of  a liying  nation  to  rid  itself  of 
wrongs  by  the  natural  outgoings  of  its  life.  It 
stands  still  amid  the  sweep  and  swirl  of  the  na- 
tional life  lilie  an  old  stump  in  a western  river,  with 
its  feet  stuck  in  the  mud — a lodging-place  for  polit- 
ical driftwood — while  the  steadily  on-going  na- 
tional life  slips  under  and  around  it  without  paying 
it  the  comxoiiment  of  a ripjile  or  an  eddy. 

There  are  many  who  believe  in  the  conservative 
power  of  education.  Many  have,  indeed,  come  to 
a settled  oxDinion  that  the  pubhc-school  system  of 
the  North  and  the  universal  newsx>ax)er  are  the  real 
safeguards  of  the  national  hfe.  I think  this  matter 
is  not  projDeiiy  understood.  Education  may  or 
may  not  be  conservative  in  its  influence.  It  is  con- 
servative or  destructive  according  to  circumstances. 
When  the  culture  of  the  heart  keeps  pace  with  the 
culture  of  the  head,  and  both  are  educated  to- 
gether, education  becomes  a conservative  power; 
but  when  the  intellect  alone  is  developed,  and  the 
heart  is  permitted  to  lie  dead  or  to  become  cor- 
ruxDted,  education  simply  sharpens  a knife  for  the 
nation’s  throat.  Education  certainly  adds  some- 
thing to  national  life,  but  conservative  power  re- 
sides in  quality,  not  quantity.  It  is  the  sugar  that 
preserves  the  fruit  and  not  the  fruit  that  i)reserves 
the  sugar.  Educate  the  intellect  of  the  common 
peoj)le — educate  everybody;  only  remember  that 
conservative  iDower  resides  in  quality  and  not  in 
quantity.  The  legitimate  relation  between  the  de- 
velopment of  the  heart  and  the  brain  must  be  con- 


212 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


stantly  preserved,  or  education  will  breed  national 
corruption  by  a law  of  nature  wliicli  cannot  pos- 
sibly be  evaded. 

I have  thus  attempted  to  present  to  you  the  great 
fact  that  national  hfe  does  not  abide  in  the  govern- 
ment, does  not  abide  in  pohtical  institutions,  does 
not  abide  in  political  parties  or  pohtical  men — that 
its  source  is  the  national  heart.  I have  endeavored 
to  show  you  that  in  the  love  of  home,  the  love  of 
country,  and  the  love  of  God,  lies  the  grand  secret 
of  the  nation’s  vitality — hes  that  which  is  distinc- 
tively a nation’s  hfe — this  nation’s  hfe.  If  the 
government  were  overthrown,  the  nation  would 
hve;  if  its  pohtical  institutions  were  destroyed  to- 
day, it  would  form  new  ones  to-morrow,  and  better 
ones;  if  its  pohtical  parties  and  its  party  men  were 
annihilated,  it  would  only  be  the  stronger  for  the 
loss.  These  are  only  accidents  and  outgrowths  of 
national  hfe;  but  if  the  love  of  home  and  country 
and  God  should  be  destroyed,  the  nation  would  at 
once  cease  to  be  an  organized,  hving  thing.  These 
loves  which  inform  the  national  heart  are  the  foun- 
tain-head of  aU  motive  that  has  hfe  in  it,  and  of  ah 
conservative  power.  I have  endeavored  to  exhibit  to 
you  this  nation  as  a creature  of  the  heart — as  hav- 
ing in  itself,  by  virtue  of  its  origin  and  constitution, 
an  independent  hfe.  The  government  is  only  its 
instrument;  institutions  are  only  its  drapery,  or 
property,  or  machinery;  parties  are  only  its  para- 
sites; and  great  men  only  its  agents  or  ornaments. 
Private  and  public  errors — private  and  public  vices 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART 


213 


— these  are  diseases,  these  are  agents  of  death;  but 
so  long  as  the  vital  fountain  remains  strong  and 
full,  the  nation  is  safe. 

I have  entertained  two  purposes  in  this  discus- 
sion. The  first  is,  to  show  that  w^henever  disease 
attacks  the  national  life,  all  remedial  agents  that 
have  reference  to  a permanent  cure  should  be  ad- 
dressed to  the  heart.  This  nation  has  been,  and 
still  is,  sick.  Treason  is  a symptom.  Sympathy 
with  treason  is  a symptom.  Insurrection  is  a 
symptom.  Corruption  in  high  places  is  a symptom. 
Loveless,  selfish,  godless  politicians  are  a symp- 
tom. I tell  you  that  this  nation  cannot  get 
thoroughly  well,  until  the  national  heart  shall  have 
been  made  pure  enough  and  unselfish  enough  to 
control  these  symptoms,  and  expel  the  diseases 
which  give  them  birth.  By  feeding  the  domestic 
fiffections,  by  the  stimulation  and  development  of 
patriotism,  and,  above  all,  by  the  cultivation  of 
Christian  grace  and  a sense  of  responsibility  to 
God,  is  the  nation  to  be  cured  of  its  disease.  Poh- 
cies,  politics,  men,  administrations — these  are  noth- 
ing: all  nostrums  addressed  to  mere  symptoms  can 
be  nothing  better  than  momentary  in  their  effect. 
Deepen  and  purify  the  national  heart,  and  treason 
and  rebellion  and  corruption  and  selfish  politics 
will  be  sloughed  off  by  the  power  of  a better  blood. 
It  is  simx^ly  a question  of  power  between  the  mo- 
tive and  conservative  forces  of  the  national  life, 
and  the  paralyzing  and  destructive  forces. 

Ah!  how  well  the  great  Physician  who  has  this 


214 


TEE  NATIONAL  HEART 


nation  in  His  care  understands  its  case!  His  treat- 
ment lias  indeed  been  heroic,  but  it  has  been 
wholesome.  Is  not  home  more  precious  to  us  than 
it  was  before  this  war  began?  Do  we  not  hold 
every  domestic  joy  at  a higher  value?  Is  not  our 
love  of  country  strengthened  and  purified  since 
this  war  began?  Has  not  the  national  flag  a new 
significance,  and  a new  power  of  inspiration?  Is 
not  our  patriotism  deeper  and  broader  and  better? 
Is  not  the  piety  of  the  national  heart  purified  and 
strengthened  also?  I declare  my  belief  that  there 
has  not  been  a time  within  the  last  half  century 
when,  as  a nation,  we  have  been  so  wilhng  to  ac- 
knowledge the  sovereign  sway  of  the  King  of  kings, 
so  ready  to  see  His  hand  in  all  chastisement  and  in  all 
success,  and  so  earnest  to  seek  His  favor  and  do 
His  will,  as  now.  These  loves  that  are  our  life 
have  been  fed  by  the  nation’s  blood,  the  nation’s 
tears,  and  the  nation’s  treasures,  until  the  nation’s 
vital  forces  are  greater  than  ever  before  in  its  his- 
tory. 

The  second  purpose  of  my  discussion  is  to  ex- 
hibit to  you  the  true  and  only  ground  of  hope  for 
the  future.  Ever  since  this  war  was  commenced 
there  have  been  croakers  in  every  community  de- 
claring more  or  less  boldly  that  the  nation  is  dead; 
that  all  the  blood  that  has  been  shed  and  all  the 
treasure  that  has  been  expended,  have  been  wasted, 
and  that  anarchy  and  general  wreck  lie  before  us. 
I tell  you  that,  with  the  development  of  the  na- 
tional heart  that  has  taken  place  since  the  war 


TEE  NATIONAL  HEART. 


215 


commenced,  tiie  nation  cannot  die.  That  question 
is  settled;  and  neither  rebellion  at  home  nor  inter- 
ference from  abroad  can  unsettle  it.  It  is  beyond 
all  the  contingencies  of  war  and  treason  and  in- 
trigue. The  government  itself  is  safe  from,  wreck  5 
at  this  moment,  not  through  any  power  of  its  own, 
but  through  the  power  of  the  people  under  an  im- 
l^ulse  of  the  national  heart.  At  the  opening  of  the 
rebellion,  the  government  was  as  powerless  to  save 
itself  as  if  it  had  been  no  more  than  the  corpora- 
tion of  the  city  of  Washington;  and  when  the 
heart  of  the  nation  could  not  push  its  blood 
through  Baltimore,  it  pushed  it  around  Baltimore, 
to  save  the  national  brain  from  syncope.  And  this 
is  exactly  my  point.  It  is  the  national  life  that 
upholds  and  moulds  and  controls  the  government. 
The  government  is  only  the  coronet  upon  the  na- 
tion’s brow.  The  nation  is  king,  and  the  crown 
moves  only  as  the  king  moves,  and  shines  only 
when  the  king  lifts  it  high  into  the  light. 

I suppose  there  may  be  eyes  in  Europe,  greedy 
vith  the  lust  of  dominion,  that  are  looking  toward 
our  shores  for  new  fields  of  conquest;  but  if  any 
power  should  ever  undertake  to  swallow  this  na- 
tion, it  would  find  itseK  in  possession  of  a most 
indigestible  morsel.  A living  nation,  cajDable  of 
self-govemment,  cannot  be  digested  by  a nation  so 
dead  that  it  consents  to  be  governed  by  a despot. 
Even  demorahzed  Poland,  with  her  comparatively 
low  grade  of  vitahty,  lies  very  hard  upon  the 
stomach  of  Kussia.  Hungaiy  is  a constant  diS' 


216 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART, 


turber  of  the  spleen  of  Austria,  and  refuses  to  be 
digested.  Little  Switzerland^ — ^living  Smtzerland 
— with  her  two  and  a half  millions,  sits  among  her 
mountain-homes  smihng  over  the  immunity  she 
enjoys  from  the  rapacious  maws  of  the  great  nations 
around  her.  If  Switzerland  could  have  been  di- 
gested, none  of  the  considerations  to  which  her 
safety  has  been  so  often  attributed  would  have  saved 
her  from  being  swallowed  long  ago.  But  Switzer- 
land is  alive  at  the  heart,  and  cannot  be  killed  at 
the  heart,  so  as  to  be  digested.  The  American  na- 
tion is  alive  at  the  heart,  and  could  not  be  killed 
by  a foreign  war  a hundred  years  long. 

And  now,  as  a final  result  of  our  discussion,  w© 
may  learn  why  it  is  that  this  nation  has  had,  from 
the  beginning  of  its  history,  such  faith  in  itself. 
The  faith  in  itself,  wdiich  it  manifested  during 
those  long,  long  years  of  the  Be  volution,  filled  aU 
the  European  pohticians  with  wonder.  They  could 
not  realize  the  fact  that  these  feeble  colonies  were 
already  a nation,  alive  at  the  heart,  and  possessing 
the  power  of  self-organization  and  self-government. 
The  end  taught  them  something,  but  the  lesson 
did  not  last.  How  constantly,  dming  the  present 
war,  have  European  politicians  failed  to  understand 
and  measure  us!  They  prophesied  early  success  to 
the  rebellion,  but  the  rebellion  has  not  succeeded. 
They  thought  they  saw  an  early  exhaustion  of 
means,  but  they  have  seen  us  prosecute  the  most 
gigantic  war  of  the  century  without  going  to  them 
for  a dollar.  Nay,  they  have  their  own  capi- 


THE  NATIONAL  HEART 


217 


talists  eagerly  buying  tbe  securities  of  our  govern- 
ment out  of  the  hands  of  our  own  people.  They 
foretold  famine,  but  we  have  had  plenty,  not  only 
for  ourselves  but  for  them;  universal  bankruptcy, 
but  we  have  aU  prospered;  anarchy,  but  we  have 
had  perfect  order,  save  in  one  or  two  instances 
when  base  European  blood  has  disturbed  it. 
They  have  wondered  that  as  a nation  we  did  not 
despair — almost  felt  like  quarrelling  with  us  be- 
cause w^e  would  not  see  and  admit  that  we  were 
ruined — have  begged  us  for  humanity’s  sake  not  to 
fight  against  fate.  As  if  a living  nation,  any  more 
than  a hving  man,  would  consent  to  the  amputa- 
tion of  a limb,  so  long  as  there  was  vitality  enough 
in  its  heart  to  save  it! 

Ah!  this  faith  of  the  nation  in  itself!  It  is  grand 
— it  is  glorious.  It  is  not  in  the  power  of  this  na- 
tion to  despair.  Its  faith  is  not  in  its  government, 
its  institutions,  its  politicians,  or  even  in  its  armies. 
Its  faith  is  in  itself,  and  in  God,  and  is  a natural 
product  of  its  life.  It  is  bom  among  the  affections. 
It  is  a child  of  love;  and  while  the  love  of  home 
and  country  and  heaven  live,  this  faith  will  live, 
rising  above  all  disaster,  superior  to  all  difficulty, 
and,  like  a winged  angel,  leading  the  nation  to  the 
grand  consummations  of  perpetual  peace,  pros- 
perity, and  power. 


GOST  AND  COMPENSATION. 


The  law  of  compensation,  as  it  is  generally 
held  and  expounded,  is  a law  of  circumstances. 
Over  against  every  defect  in  a man’s  constitution, 
over  against  every  flaw  in  his  condition,  over 
against  every  weakness  in  his  character,  there  is 
set  some  compensating  excellence  which  rounds 
him  into  wholeness.  Mr.  Emerson,  in  his  exposi- 
tion of  this  law,  declares  that  no  man  ever  had  a 
defect  which  was  not  made  useful  to  him  some- 
where— ^a  comfortable  suggestion  to  that  limited 
number  of  fortunate  persons  who  have  defects! 

In  the  general  view  of  this  law,  man  would  seem 
to  be  not  unUke  those  gum- elastic  heads  which 
amuse  our  children.  A pressure  on  the  cheeks  is 
accompanied  by  a compensatory  thickening  of  the 
lips.  Bear  down  the  bump  of  reverence,  and  up 
comes  the  bum]p  of  benevolence.  Squeeze  hard 
across  the  temples,  and  hold  closely  in  the  back  of 


COST  AND  COMPENSATIOK 


219 


the  head,  and  we  have  Sir  Walter  Scott.  There  is 
compensation  for  every  squeeze  in  some  new  pro- 
trusion. The  head  assumes  new  forms  and  expres- 
sions, but  it  is  never  smaller.  So,  in  this  philoso- 
phy, a man  may  have  any  number  of  defects,  but  the 
measure  of  his  manhood  is  not  reduced  by  them. 
Indeed,  his  defects  are  the  measure  of  his  excel- 
lences. 

Now  I do  not  propose  to  quarrel  with  this  phi- 
losophy, which,  I may  say  in  passing,  covers  not 
only  man  in  his  constitution,  but  man  in  all  his  be- 
longings; for  there  is  some  truth,  or  half-truth,  in 
it.  It  opens  a field  of  observation  and  thought 
that  will  well  repay  exploration,  though  the  only 
practical  result  that  can  be  reached  is  contentment 
with  the  constitution  of  things  and  the  allotments 
of  life:  and  this  is  not  a mean  price. 

I propose  to  leave  this  aspect  of  the  law,  for  one 
which  has  relation  directly  to  life  and  its  motive- 
forces.  Cost  is  the  father  and  compensation  is  the 
mother  of  progress;  and  I propose  to  treat  of  them 
as  they  relate  to  the  grand  ends,  enterprises,  and 
activities  of  life. 

Exchange,  for  mutual  benefit,  is  the  basis  of  all 
trade — it  is  itseK  all  legitimate  trade.  The  man 
who  does  a day’s  work  for  me  exchanges  that  work 
for  my  money,  and  we  are  mutually  benefited. 
He  would  rather  have  my  money  than  save  his  la- 
bor. I would  rather  have  his  labor  than  save  my 
money.  The  story  of  the  two  Yankee  boys  who 
were  shut  up  in  a room  together,  and  made  twenty- 


220 


GOST  AND  COMPENSATION. 


five  cents  apiece  swapping  jack-knives  before  they 
came  out,  is  entirely  rational  and  probable.  It  is 
very  likely  that  each  found  his  advantage  in  his 
new  possession.  A.  merchant  in  Illinois  has  wheat 
which  he  exchanges  with  a New  York  jobber  for 
hardware.  The  exchange  is  made  at  the  market 
value,  and  is  nominally  an  even  one,  but,  in  reality, 
each  finds  advantages  in  it,  and  each  makes  money 
by  it.  When  the  business  of  a nation  is  in  a 
healthy  condition,  all  men  thrive  through  the 
means  of  exchanges  of  values  that  are  nominally 
equal. 

As  a rule  of  business  intercourse,  we  pay  for 
what  we  get,  dollar  for  dollar,  and  pound  for  pound. 
Every  material  good  which  man  produces  has  its 
price,  and  can  be  procured  for  its  price.  Except 
this  price  be  paid,  it  can  only  be  procured  by  beg- 
ging or  stealing — ^through  shame  or  sin.  Every- 
thing costs  something;  and  most  of  the  meannesses 
of  the  world  are  perpetrated  in  various  ingenious 
attempts  to  get  something  for  nothing,  or  for  an 
inadequate  price. 

The  history' of  a dollar  has  been  written,  I be- 
lieve, and  it  would  certainly  be  interesting  to  fol- 
low any  dollar  through  the  endless  concatenation 
of  exchanges,  and  see  how  it  reheves  and  enriches 
every  hand  it  touches.  I pay  a dollar,  for  instance, 
for  a bushel  of  potatoes,  and  the  green-grocer  pays 
it  to  the  gardener,  who  pays  it,  we  will  say,  to  the 
coal-dealer,  who  pays  it  to  the  mining  company,  who 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION, 


221 


pay  it  to  the  miner,  wlio  pays  it  to  the  draper  for 
a shirt,  who  pays  it  to  the  manufacturer,  who  pays 
it  to  the  cotton-factor,  who  pays  it  to  the  Southern 
shipper,  who  pays  it  to  the  Southern  planter,  who 
pays  it  to  his — no — I beheve  he  doesn’t.  My  illus- 
tration is  not  entirely  happy,  I see;  but,  after  all, 
it  is  the  only  one  that  will  give  me  a stopping- 
jplace.  Everything  a man  parts  with  is  the  cost  of 
something.  Everything  he  receives  is  the  com- 
pensation for  something. 

This,  as  between  man  and  man,  in  all  business 
intercourse  whatsoever.  Now  between  man  and 
nature  there  is  precisely  the  same  relation.  Man, 
as  his  own  proprietor,  understands  it,  and  God  un- 
derstands it  as  the  proprietor  of  nature.  God  has 
commissioned  nature  to  pay  for  everything  that 
man  does  for  her — imposed  upon  her  this  law,  in- 
deed, which  she  never  disobeys.  To  man,  He  says 
by  many  voices:  “I  have  given  you  all  the  air  you 
can  breathe,  all  the  water  you  can  use,  and  all  the 
earth  you  can  cultivate;  I have  given  you  the  min- 
istry of  the  rain  and  the  dew,  and  the  hght  of  the 
sun  and  moon  and  stars,  and  spread  over  you  the 
beauty  of  the  heavens;  I have  given  you  brains  to 
design  and  muscles  to  labor.  These  are  essentials 
— these  are  necessary  capital  for  commencing  hfe’s 
business — these  are  common  and  free;  but  if  you 
want  anytliing  else — and  you  do  want  everything 
else — you  must  work  for  it — ^pay  for  it  in  labor  or 
its  equivalent.  You  are  at  liberty  to  exchange 


222 


GOST  AND  COMPENSATION. 


what  you  have  worked  for,  for  that  which  your 
neighbor  has  worked  for,  but,  between  you,  you 
must  work  for  what  you  get.” 

And  here  is  where  we  find  the  basis  of  all  the 
values  by  which  we  regulate  our  exchanges.  La- 
bor— the  expenditure  of  vital  effort  in  some  form — 
is  the  measure,  nay,  it  is  the  maker,  of  values.  A 
pearl  will  sell  for  just  as  much  more  than  a potato 
as  it  will  cost  of  human  effort  to  obtain  it.  Gold 
is  not  so  useful  a metal  as  iron.  L:on  can  be  put 
to  ten  uses  where  gold  can  only  be  put  to  one;  but 
gold  is  ten  thousand  times  as  valuable  as  iron,  and 
mainly  because  it  cost  ten  thousand  times  as  much 
labor  to  obtain  it  from  the  earth. 

Expenditure — Compensation:  these  are  the  great 
motions  of  the  world.  We  are  all  the  time  pouring 
our  hfe  into  the  earth,  and  the  earth  is  all  the  time 
pouring  its  hfe  back  into  us.  Her  great  storehouse 
of  treasure  is  filled  for  those  who  will  pay  for  it. 
Douglas  Jerrold  said  that  in  Austraha  it  is  only 
necessary  to  tickle  the  earth  with  a hoe  to  make 
her  laugh  with  a harvest.  That  I suppose  is  when 
she  meets  the  first  settler,  and  is  particularly  glad 
to  see  him!  but  she  soon  gets  over  her  extreme 
good  nature,  and  insists  on  rigid  business  deahng. 
In  New  England  she  is  severe,  but  she  is  true. 
There  is  not  a spot  of  all  her  sterile  soil  that  will 
not  fairly  compensate  those  who  put  tli.eir  life  into 
it.  The  meanest  white-birch  swamp  only  asks  for 
drainage  and  tillage,  and  it  will  j)ay  bountifully  in 
bread.  Culture,  fertilization,  exploration — these 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION, 


223 


are  the  conditions  upon  which  the  earth  yields  up 
her  treasures  to  man — and  she  never  fails  to  pay 
back  all  that  she  receives.  The  trapper,  in  his 
pursuit  of  furs,  travels  far  and  wide,  and  exercises 
all  his  skill  and  cunning;  and  he  brings  back  that 
which  pays  him  for  his  expenditure.  The  fisher- 
man throws  his  net  or  his  hook  in  all  waters,  and 
the  sea  faithfully  rewards  his  quest.  The  gold- 
hunter  digs  into  the  side  of  the  mountain,  and, 
when  he  has  probed  far  enough,  he  reaches  the 
chamber  where  Nature  sits  behind  her  crystal 
counter,  and  deals  out  the  yellow  ingots.  The 
sweat  of  the  human  brow,  wherever  it  falls,  dis- 
solves the  bars  by  which  nature  holds  her  treasures 
from  human  hands. 

Thus  we  find  in  fellow-dealing,  and  in  all  our 
search  for  material  good  among  the  resources  of 
nature,  this  law — that  everything  costs,  and  every- 
thing pays;  that  if  we  make  an  intelligent  expendi- 
ture, under  essential  conditions  intelhgently  appre- 
hended and  fulfilled,  we  receive  full  compensation 
in  the  kind  of  good  which  we  seek.  And  this  law 
is  not  a special  one.  It  is  universal,  and  throws  its 
girdle  around  everything  desirable  to  the  human 
soul.  We  give  and  get,  and  only  get  by  giving. 
All  the  good  we  win,  we  win  by  sacrifice. 

There  are  certain  essentials  to  the  soul’s  fife,  as 
there  are  to  the  body’s  life,  which  God  bestows  in 
common  upon  all  the  race — necessary  spiritual  capi- 
tal on  which  to  set  up  business.  It  is  as  if  God  had 
said:  “I  have  given  you  love  for  your  hearts. 


224: 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


senses  to  yield  you  pleasure  while  they  do  you  ser- 
vice, joy  in  hving,  aspirations,  ambitions,  hopes; 
but  if  you  want  anything  more  than  these — and 
you  do  want  everything  that  you  can  appropriate 
in  all  my  universe — jou.  must  pay  for  it  by  an  ex- 
penditure of  yourself  or  your  possessions.  If  you 
want  learning,  you  must  work  for  it.  If  you  desire 
to  reproduce,  or  embody,  that  which  is  within  you 
in  any  form  of  art,  you  must  make  great  sacrifices 
for  it.  If  you  would  make  high  acquisitions  in 
spiritual  and  moral  excellence,  you  must  pay, 
measure  for  measure,  for  all  you  obtain.  There  is 
not  a single  good  in  my  realm — ^not  yours  in  com- 
mon with  all  your  race — ^not  embraced  in  your 
original  capital — that  can  be  secured  without  a 
sacrifice  that  corresponds  to,  and  in  some  degree 
measures,  its  value;  and  there  is  not  a good  in  my 
realm  that  will  not  reward,  and  does  not  wait  to  re- 
ward, your  expenditures.” 

Now  what  are  the  treasures  that  a man  holds  in 
his  hands,  exchangeable  for  the  better  wealth? 

First,  Time.  Our  life  is  hmited.  The  average 
hfe  of  men  does  not  exceed  forty  years;  and  three- 
score years  and  ten  measure,  except  in  rare  in- 
stances, the  farthest  limit  of  active  life.  This  mat- 
ter of  time,  as  one  of  our  articles  of  exchange,  is  a 
very  important  one.  Under  ordinary  and  preva- 
lent circumstances,  it  is  a pleasant  thing  to  live, 
and,  it  being  a pleasant  thing  to  five,  it  is  a pleas- 
ant thing  to  have  leisure — that  is,  to  have  nothing 
which  shall  so  occupy  our  time  as  to  interfere  with 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION, 


225 


the  simple  enjoyment  of  living.  When,  therefore, 
we  are  called  out  of  our  leisure  into  labor,  we  go, 
if  our  leisure  is  comfortable  or  happy,  with  a sense 
f real  sacrifice. 

Again,  time  is  of  great  value  to  us,  because  so 
much  of  it  is  required  for  those  activities  whose 
aim  is  the  sustenance  and  protection  of  the  bodily 
fife.  The  amount  of  time  required  for  the  acquisi- 
tion of  the  means  of  bodily  subsistence  is  very 
great;  and  to  this  must  be  added  all  that  is  neces- 
sary for  bodily  rest  and  refreshment.  A man 
whose  period  of  active  life  stretches  on  to  fifty 
years — say  from  twenty  to  seventy — ^laboring  ten 
hours  a day,  sleeping  and  resting  and  idling  ten 
hours,  and  spending  two  hours  in  eating,  dressing, 
bathing,  &c.,  has  just  two  hours  left  out  of  the  twen- 
ty-four which  are  at  his  disposal.  These  amount  to 
four  years  and  a fraction  in  fifty,  without  reckon- 
ing the  Sabbaths — but,  as  the  average  of  active  fife 
is  really  not  more  than  twenty- five  years,  and  we 
are  only  after  a general  result,  we  will  let  the  Sab- 
baths go;  and  say  that  every  man  has  four  years  of 
time,  as  a treasure  to  be  disposed  of  for  whatever 
the  soul  may  choose  to  purchase. 

Let  us  remember  that  we  are  making  a liberal 
estimate.  There  are  great  multitudes  of  men — aye, 
and  women  too — perhaps  more  women  than  men — 
who,  even  in  an  active  life  of  fifty  years,  do  not 
have  two  years  of  time  at  them  disposal;  who  work 
and  eat  and  sleep  throughout  the  whole  period, 
and  then  die  with  absolutely  no  time  with  which 


226 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION. 


to  purchase  that  higher  good  for  which  they  were 
made.  It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that  time,  as 
one  of  our  disposable  treasures,  is  not  measured  by 
the  duration  of  life  at  ail.  Divide  the  number  of 
years  we  live  by  ten,  and  the  quotient  will  give  tis 
more  than  the  average  of  time  in  our  possession, 
for  conversion  into  the  higher  grades  of  good. 

The  second  treasure  which  a man  holds  for  ex- 
change is  Vitality.  ‘‘No  man,”  says  Peter  Bayne, 
“ has  more  than  a certain  force  allotted  him  by  na- 
ture. It  may  be  greater  or  less;  but  it  is  measured, 
audit  cannot  be  expended  twice.”  Everyman,  I 
suppose,  arrives  at  adult  years  with  a definite  stock 
of  vital  power  on  hand.  Before  he  dies,  that  stock 
is  all  to  be  expended.  It  may  all  be  expended  in 
bodily  labor,  or  a portion  of  it  only.  It  may  be 
expended  in  a struggle  against  disease.  It  may  be 
expended  in  the  illicit  gratification  of  the  senses. 
It  may  be  wasted  in  the  digestion  of  unnecessary 
food.  Or,  it  may  be  expended  mainly  in  the  ac- 
quisition of  intellectual,  moral,  and  spiritual  wealth. 
Like  time,  much  of  it  must  be  used  in  obtaining 
food  and  clothing  and  shelter  for  the  body;  but 
there  is  a remnant  left  to  be  appHed  by  the  power 
of  the  will  to  the  purchase  of  that  good  which  is 
the  highest  wealth  of  fife  and  character. 

The  third  treasure  is  Ease.  Beyond  the  simple 
pleasure  of  living,  and  beyond  the  passive  recep- 
tion of  pleasure  through  the  senses,  ease  is,  and  al- 
ways has  been,  regarded  as  a treasure.  Men  often 
work  through  many  weary  years  to  obtain  ii  La- 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


227 


bor  is  not  a tiling  which  men  love  for  itself.  Men 
love  that  which  pleasantly  engages  the  activities  of 
body  and  mind;  but  that  is  essentially  play.  Work 
is  something  which  both  body  and  mind  are  driven 
to.  The  will  is  obliged  to  apply  its  determining  and 
motive  power,  before  either  liody  or  mind  will  un- 
dertake that  which  is  essentially  a task.  To  many 
men,  of  fine  powers,  the  ease  of  those  powers  is 
the  most  grateful  and  precious  of  ail  their  treasures, 
and  the  one  which  they  are  the  most  unwilling  to 
sacrifice  for  the  higher  good  which  only  its  sur- 
render can  win.  The  fairest  picture  of  heaven  it- 
self, to  some  souls,  is  that  which  represents  it  as 
the  home  of  ease.  But  this  treasure  must  go  with 
the  others,  as  a part  of  the  price  of  spiritual  and  all 
superior  good. 

There  is  another  treasure,  harder  than  all  the 
rest  to  surrender,  without  which  the  whole  pay- 
ment is  vitiated;  and  this  is  the  Will,  with  aU  its 
self-love  and  pride.  There  is  nothing  more  pre- 
cious to  a man  than  his  will;  there  is  nothing 
which  he  relinquishes  with  so  much  reluctance. 
The  natural  desire  of  every  man  is  to  follow  the 
dictates  of  his  own  will,  unhindered.  Obedience 
is  not  easy,  until  it  is  adopted  as  the  rule  of  hfe. 
If  we  had  no  authority  but  human  experience,  it 
would  be  safe  to  say  that  an  obedient  and  childlike 
spirit  is  absolutely  essential,  not  only  to  the  ac- 
quisition but  to  the  reception  of  the  highest  good. 
A man  must  come  under  the  laws  of  his  being,  and 
bow  to  the  laws  and  conditions  of  aU  being — he 


228 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION. 


must  place  his  own  will  in  harmony  with  the  Su- 
preme will — ^before  it  will  be  possible  for  him  even 
to  receive  the  highest  good  God  has  to  bestow. 

I might  enumerate  other  treasures  which  every 
man  holds  for  exchange,  but  you  see  the  drift  of 
the  argument,  and  can  fill  out  the  inventory. 

These,  then,  are  our  treasures — our  stock;  and 
now  let  us  examine  some  of  the  ways  by  which,  as 
individuals,  communities,  and  nations,  men  win 
compensation  for  their  exj)enditures. 

At  first,  let  me  state  the  proposition  which  I 
hope  with  some  degree  of  clearness  to  illustrate  in 
this  lecture,  viz. , that  no  expenditure  of  the  treas- 
ures I have  enumerated  can  ever  be  made,  with 
earnest  truthfulness  of  purpose,  without  securing 
compensation  in  some  form,  at  some  time.  Let  us 
understand  that  there  are  before  every  one  of  us 
two  hoards  of  treasure— one  held  by  God,  the  other 
by  man — mutually  exchangeable,  and  that  this  law 
of  exchange,  or  this  law  of  compensation  for  ex- 
penditure, is  instituted  from  eternity,  and  has  no 
suspension  and  no  flaw.  Let  me  present  this  treas- 
ure which  God  holds  for  us  under  the  figure  of  a 
massive  golden  vase,  filled  to  the  brim  with  water 
— a vase  that  can  neither  be  dipped  from  nor  di’awn 
from,  but  that  overflows  to  the  hand  that  drops  its 
treasure  into  it — overflows  to  that  hand  always,  and 
overflows  to  no  other  hand. 

In  our  consideration  of  this  subject,  we  shall  find 
that  cost  and  compensation  are  ot  two  kinds;  that 
they  are  separable  into  two  departments,  each  gov 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


229 


emed  by  independent  laws.  In  one,  compensation 
is  directly  sought,  for  personal  advantage.  In  the 
other-,  moved  by  the  power  of  love,  we  expend  our  • 
treasure  without  hope  of  persotial  advantage,  and 
receive  it  without  the  seeking.  The  instinct  of  in- 
fancy is  to  grasp  and  appropriate  something  to 
build  itself  up  with.  It  blindly  reaches  out  toward 
everything  its  senses  apprehend,  and  fixes  its  grap- 
ple upon  evil  as  gTeedily  as  upon  good.  This  im- 
pulse, directed  with  increasing  intelligence,  follows 
us  throughout  the  infancy  of  our  being.  We  work 
for  a direct  reward.  The  hardest  trial  we  have,  in 
the  education  of  children,  is  to  induce  them  to 
study  when  they  are  unable  to  see  and  appreciate 
the  reward  which  that  study  will  secure.  Daily 
practice  of  the  scales  upon  a musical  instrument, 
drill  in  the  rudiments  of  a foreign  lang*uage — these 
are  tasks  which  a child  tires  of,  because  it  does  not 
distinctly  apprehend,  or  does  not  value,  their  re- 
ward. Set  the  child  to  learning  a tune,  or  trying 
a bit  of  translation,  and  the  reward  for  work  is  so 
near,  and  so  distinctly  apprehended,  and  so 
much  valued,  that  it  labors*  with  efficiency  and  en- 
thusiasm. 

Grown-up  children  betray  the  same  character- 
istic, and  it  is  not  to  be  found  fault  with.  It  is 
the  ordination  of  nature  that  we  shall  be  something 
before  we  can  do  something — that  we  shall  win 
something  before  we  can  have  anything  to  bestow. 
We  are  to  be  fed,  developed,  endowed,  before  we 
are  fitted  for  ministry;  and  we  must  seek  directly 


230 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


for  those  rewards  which  give  us  food,  development^ 
and  endowment. 

The  second  motive  of  action  proceeds  from  with- 
in rather  than  from  without.  The  personal  reward 
is  unsought  for,  but  it  never  fails.  When  a man 
moves  under  the  law  of  love,  he  is  unselfish,  and 
loses  all  thought  of  reward.  He  has  ceased  for  the 
time  to  appropriate,  and  becomes  a dispenser. 
His  fife  is  voluntarily  transformed  into  a channel 
through  which  the  divine  beneficence  flows  into 
the  world.  That  which  he  has  won  of  the  higher 
good  becomes  generative,  and  makes  manifestation. 
But  here,  as  elsewhere,  he  must  expend  his  jprivate 
treasures;  and  for  this  expenditure  there  is  always 
payment.  He  must  expend  time,  ease  and  vitality, 
and  money,  perhaps — one  of  the  forms  in  which 
all  these  treasures  are  preserved.  Does  the  meadow 
that  bears  one  of  God’s  broad  rivers  on  its  bosom 
get  no  reward  from  the  river?  By  bearing  the 
burden  of  the  hills,  it  is  gTeener  than  they.  Any 
man  who  becomes  the  channel  of  a divine  good, 
sucks  into  his  own  being  the  juices  of  that  good. 
Indeed,  the  reward  for  unselfish  service  is  better 
than  any  other,  because  the  quality  of  the  sacrifice 
is  finer. 

Aud  here  let  me  say  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
in  the  world — that  there  never  was,  and  never  can 
be,  any  such  thing  in  the  world — as  charity — some- 
thing given  for  nothing.  There  may  be  abundant 
charity  in  the  motive — that  is,  sacrifice  may  be 
made  from  motives  of  love,  or  pity,  or  sympathy, 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


231 


or  mercy,  without  wish  or  expectation  of  reward; 
but  this  expenditure  is  subject  to  the  highest  gTade 
of  compensation.  There  is  no  letting  up  of  this 
law  for  any  motive.  Expend,  and  the  compensa- 
tion comes.  One  motive  is  the  complement  and 
resolution  of  the  other.  They  fly  wing-and-wing 
throughout  the  universe.  The  operation  of  the 
Jaw  is  like  that  of  those  old  country- wells  which  we 
knew  in  our  childhood.  While  we  empty  one  of 
their  two  buckets,  the  other  is  filling:  it  is  impos- 
sible that  one  should  be  emptied  without  the  other 
being  fiUed,  and  equally  impossible  that  one  should 
be  filled  without  the  other  being  emptied. 

In  the  first  of  these  two  departments  of  compen- 
sation we  need  to  finger  but  a moment.  Precisely 
fi;S  we  dig  in  the  ground  for  gold,  or  wash  the  sand 
for  gems,  or  sound  the  sea  for  pearls — precisely  as 
we  cultivate  the  field  to  obtain  those  fruits  which 
feed  us,  or  operate  the  miU  to  make  those  fabrics 
which  clothe  us,  do  we  seek  for  that  higher  good 
which  supplies  and  endows  our  higher  life.  The 
recorded  wisdom  of  the  world  is  in  our  libraries; 
the  truth  of  God  is  in  our  Bibles.  We  know  just 
where  labor  will  wdn,  moment  by  moment,  fuU 
compensation.  We  know  what  sacrifices  will  win 
Avisdom,  learning,  culture.  We  know  what  wo 
must  give  of  time,  ease,  and  vitality,  for  every  ex- 
cellence in  ai*t.  We  know  how  much  of  sensual 
pleasure  and  how  much  of  v/ill  we  must  relinquish 
to  acquire  spiritual  elevation  and  purity;  and  we 
know  that,  in  all  these  cases,  these  sacrifices  will 


232 


GOST  AND  COMPENSATION 


procure  the  exact  measure  of  compensation  which 
we  seek.  We  know,  furthermore,  that  there  is  not 
a power  or  possession  with  which  we  seek  to  en- 
dow ourselves,  wdiich  is  to  be  procured  in  any  way 
but  by  these  specific  sacrifices.  It  is  said  that 
there  is  no  royal  road  to  learning.  It  may  be  said 
with  equal  truth  that  there  is  no  royal  road  to  any- 
thing desirable.  Genius  enjoys  no  immunities. 
The  bird  flies  faster  than  the  fox  runs;  but  the 
bird  must  use  its  wings  or  the  fox  mil  catch  it. 
God  gives  us  arms  and  hands,  but  he  does  not  give 
us  strength  and  dexterity.  These  have  a price, 
and  we  must  work  with  our  hands  and  work  with 
our  arms,  or  we  cannot  have  strength  and  dexterity. 
He  gives  us  brains,  but  He  does  not  give  us  learn- 
ing, or  wisdom,  or  power  of  easy  expression,  or 
strength  and  skill  in  intellectual  labor.  All  these 
must  be  purchased,  and  all  these  are  a sufficient  re- 
ward for  what  we  give  for  them. 

We  turn  to  the  other  department,  and  find  our 
most  direct  way  to  its  illustration  through  an  ap- 
peal to  universal  human  experience.  We  find  no 
statistics  ready  for  us.  No  careful  plodder  has 
ever  been  over  the  ground,  and  collected  the  facts 
which  show  that  for  every  unselfish  deed  of  good 
the  doer  has  received  a grand  reward;  and  The 
Master  keeps  no  accounts  that  are  open  to  our  in- 
spection. Every  man,  however,  wffio  hears  me  will 
testify  to  this:  that  he  never  fed  a beggar,  or 
ministered  to  a helpless  or  suffering  fellow-man, 
or  made  a sacrifice  for  the  xDublie  good,  without  a 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


233 


return  wliicli  more  than  paid  him  for  his  exi^endi- 
ture. 

It  is  not  necessary  that  I should  point  out  the 
modes  in  wliich  good  comes  to  a man,  as  a com- 
pensation for  unselfish  sacrifice.  It  is  enough  for 
me  to  say  that  no  man  ever  made  this  sacrifice 
without  feeling  abundantly  paid  for  it. 

Still,  let  us  illustrate  the  point.  I choose  for  this 
purpose  true  marriage  and  hap]py  maternity.  In 
the  surrender  of  her  name,  her  destiny,  her  life, 
herself,  to  her  husband,  a woman  realizes  the  re- 
ception of  a blessing  greater  than  she  believes  it  in 
her  power  to  bestow;  for  true  love  is  always  hum- 
ble in  the  presence  of  its  object.  This  surrender 
is  entire,  and  glad  as  it  is  entire;  and  the  moment 
it  is  made,  she  finds  that  she  is  worth  more  to  her- 
seK,  as  the  possession  of  another,  than  she  was 
when  she  was  her  own.  And  this  wife  becoming  a 
mother,  gives  her  life  to  her  children.  The  fresh- 
ness fades  from  her  brow,  the  roses  fall  from  her 
cheeks,  the  violets  in  her  eyes  drop  their  dew,  and 
her  frame  loses  its  elasticity:  but  in  these  children 
and  their  precious  love,  she  has  a reward  for  every 
sacrifice,  so  great  that  sacrifice  becomes  a pleasant 
habit,  and  ministry  the  passion  of  her  life.  She 
expends,  under  the  motive-power  of  love,  all  her 
treasures  of  time,  ease,  vitahty,.  and  will,  and  feels 
poimng  back  into  her  heart,  through  numberless 
unsuspected  avenues,  such  largess  of  blessing  as 
overflows  her  vdth  a sense  of  grateful  satisfaction. 
Does  that  Christian  lover  of  his  kind  who  snends 


234 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


liis  life  in  hospitals  and  prisons,  in  ministry  to 
human  need  and  human  suffering,  have  smaller 
pay  ? Has  he  who  gives  himself  for  his  country, 
even  if  he  fall  in  the  front  of  battle,  meaner  com- 
23ensation?  Ask  him,  and  hear  his  noble  answer: 
“ It  is  sweet  and  glorious  to  die  for  one’s  country.” 
Does  he  who  gives  himself  in  service  to  the  Great 
Master,  even  though  he  die  the  martyr’s  death  of 
fire,  have  a smaller  reward  ? Love  is  one.  It 
moves  to  one  tune  ; it  works  by  one  law ; it  leads 
to  one  issue. 

And  now  I come  to  the  consideration  of  this  law 
of  compensation  as  it  relates  to  social  communities. 
Society  has  material  interests  and  treasures,  and 
society  is  high  or  low,  good  or  bad,  progressive  in 
culture  and  goodness  or  retrograde,  refined  or 
coarse,  polite  or  vulgar,  as  it  sacrifices  these  inter- 
ests and  treasures  for  social  food  and  social  wealth. 
When  we  reach  the  consideration  of  associated 
men,  we  come  to  institutions.  Those  who  are 
Christians  associate  themselves  together,  and  form 
a church.  They  build  a house  of  worship,  and  en- 
gage the  ministry  of  a preacher.  They  start  a 
Sunday-school,  and  institute  all  the  machinery 
necessary  for  securing  the  best  Christian  results. 
Society  establishes  and  supports  schools  for  the 
education  of  the  young  of  all  classes,  purchases 
libraries  for  the  people,  forms  lecture  associations, 
establishes  institutions  for  relief  of  the  poor,  and 
institutes  a multitude  of  agencies  for  the  general 
good. 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION, 


235 


Now,  wliile  there  is  a certain  number  of  persons^ 
in  all  society,  who  must  sacrifice  time,  ease  and 
vitality,  directly,  for  the  purpose  of  elevating  its 
life,  the  great  majority  are  called  upon  to  sacrifice 
little  more  than  money;  but  money  itself,  as  1 have 
already  incidentally  stated,  is  an  article  in  which 
time,  ease,  and  vitality  are  embodied  and  hoarded. 
Some  men  inherit  in  money  the  hoarded  lives  of 
many  men,  and  so  have  much  power.  Time,  ease, 
and  vitality  are  converted  into  money,  so  that  a 
given  amount  of  money  represents  a day’s  labor. 
If  my  friend,  who  has  a special  gift  for  doing  the 
work  of  society,  spends  a day  in  that  work,  he 
sacrifices  no  more  than  I do,  who  give,  to  forward 
his  objects,  as  much  money  as  he  would  earn  in 
that  time.  Money  is  a grand,  indispensable  requi- 
site for  all  the  operations  for  social  improvement. 
Churches  and  schools  cannot  be  built  and  supported 
without  money,  and  it  is  a beneficent  ordination  of 
Providence  that  the  results  of  labor  can  be  accumu- 
lated and  embodied  in  a form  so  available  for  social 
purposes. 

There  are  three  forms  in  which  reward  comes 
for  all  expenditures  made  for  the  higher  interests 
of  society.  The  first  is  material,  and  perfectly  ap- 
preciable by  minds  actuated  mainly  by  material 
motives.  The  Great  Rewarder  has  provided  a pay- 
ment for  social  sacrifices  which  the  most  selfish 
man  can  appreciate  and  appropriate.  If  a man 
makes  a sacrifice  for  society,  he  can,  with  a com- 
mon share  of  brains,  see  that  he  gets  his  money 


236 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


back,  so  that  he  may  regard  his  sacrifice  as  an  in- 
vestment. 

Let  us,  for  illustration,  suppose  the  existence  of 
a little  city  of  ten  thousand  inhabitants,  without  a 
church,  or  a school-house,  or  a library,  or  a lyce- 
um,  or  any  institution  of  any  kind  for  the  moral, 
intellectual,  and  social  culture  of  the  people.  Let 
us  suppose  this  city  to  be  rich  in  material  good, 
and  in  facilities  and  opportunities  for  augmenting 
it.  Would  property  be  safe  in  such  a city?  Would 
vice  be  under  control  there?  Would  men  be  in- 
dustrious there?  Would  it  possess  the  best  ele- 
ments of  prosperity  and  security?  What  things, 
in  all  the  world,  would  add  most  to  the  value  of 
real  and  personal  property  in  such  a city?  Would 
there  be  a man  among  its  ten  thousand — no  mat- 
ter how  vile  or  mean  his  personal  character  might 
be — ^who  could  find  a better  investment  for  his 
money  than  by  paying  his  share  toward  building 
five  churches  and  ten  school-houses,  and  endowing 
a public  library  and  lyceum?  Such  an  investment 
as  this  would  double  the  actual  market  value  of  all 
the  property  of  the  city.  No  man  there  could  af- 
ford to  place  his  money  at  simple  interest  while 
such  an  investment  waited  to  be  made.  Any  man 
who  permits  institutions  like  these  to  go  begging, 
in  a city  which  contains  his  property,  convicts 
himseK  of  business  incompetency.  All  these  institu^ 
tions  bring  with  them  a positive,  money-producing 
and  money-preserving  power.  They  are  stimulants 
of  industry,  foes  to  all  wasteful  vices,  bonds  of 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


237 


hannony  among  jarring  material  interests ; nay, 
they  are  absolute  essentials  to  a safe,  steady,  and 
reliable  prosperity.  It  is  not  necessary  that  a man 
should  be  benevolent  to  give  money  for  the  estab- 
hshment  and  support  of  these  institutions.  It  is 
simply  necessary  that  he  have  the  instincts  and  the 
foresight  of  an  ordinary  man  of  business. 

The  second  form  in  which  reward  comes  for  so- 
cial sacrifice  is  higher  and  better  than  this  ; and 
there  are  very  few  minds  that  cannot  appreciate 
this,  and  even  appropriate  it.  There  are  things  in 
the  w'oiid  which  cannot  be  eaten,  or  worn,  or 
handled,  that  have  a money- value.  When  a man 
pays  out  a half  a dollar  for  a dinner,  he  buys  that 
which  he  knows  to  be  necessary  to  his  life.  A 
dinner  is  one  of  the  things  that  he  must  have. 
When  he  pays  out  half  a dollar  for  cigars,  he  pays 
for  that  which  is  not  necessary  to  him,  but  which, 
through  habit,  has  become  so  desirable,  perhaps, 
that  he  really  wins  more  satisfaction  from  his  ex- 
penditure than  he  did  from  that  which  procured 
his  dinner.  Here,  you  see,  is  a money- value  at- 
tached to  a satisfaction  which  stands  outside  the 
pale  of  utihty.  If  he  pays  half  a dollar  for  the 
privilege  of  hstening  to  a concert,  he  concedes  that 
music,  or  the  satisfaction  it  gives  him,  has  an 
actual  money-value.  If  he  gives  half  a dollar  to 
hear  a lecture,  he  declares  by  his  act  that  the  satis- 
faction, or  inspiration,  or  instruction  which  the 
lecture  yields  him  is  worth  half  a dollar  in  money. 
If  he  pays  a hundred  dollars  a year  for  the  jpurpose 


238 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


of  hearing  a preacher,  he  recognizes  a money-value 
in  preaching,  considered  with  direct  reference  to 
himself  and  his  family.  There  is,  then,  an  actual 
and  well  recognized  money- value  in  the  satisfactions 
and  acquisitions  which  come  to  society  immediately 
through  its  institutions.  We  pay  out  our  money, 
and  we  get  for  it  a kind  of  good  which  we  cannot 
re-convert  into  money,  but  which  we  recognize  as 
worth  the  money  it  cost^  us  in  the  market.  In- 
deed, the  value  which  we  attach  to  this  good  is 
measured  by  the  dollars  it  costs  far  more  than  we 
are  generally  aware.  We  talk  about  free  churches, 
and  free  schools,  and  free  libraries;  but  if  these 
were  all  free — free  as  air,  or  water,  everywhere — 
society  would  be  impoverished  by  them.  People 
do  not  prize  a blessing  which  costs  them  nothing, 
nor  care  for  an  institution  whose  burdens  they  do 
not  feel.  If  all  these  institutions,  which  do  such 
service  for  society,  should  be  placed  where  they 
would  cost  society  nothing,  they  would  die  of  in- 
anition. 

I have  thus  discovered  to  you  two  distinct  and 
independently  competent  rewards  for  all  that  is  ex- 
pended in  the  establishment  of  social  institutions. 
The  first  is  a return  in  kind,  of  doLars  and  cents; 
a community  is  actually  and  demonstrably  worth 
more  money  after  having  sacrificed  generously  for 
the  ordinary  institutions  of  Christian  society,  than 
it  was  before.  The  second  is  a reward,  in  money- 
value,  of  the  good  which  these  institutions  were 
established  to  secure,  in  their  direct  and  immediate 


GOST  AND  COMPENSATION. 


239 


result:  it  is  a reward  wdiicli  society  feels  that  it  is 
profited  by  accepting  in  place  of  its  money.  Yet 
there  is  a third  reward,  not  much  considered  in 
the  expenditure,  greater  and  better  than  these. 

Society,  by  intelligent  sacrifice,  not  only  wins  a 
reward  in  material  good  and  passing  intellectual 
and  spiritual  satisfaction,  but  it  builds  up  for  itself 
a character  and  a culture,  which  increase  its  value 
to  itself  and  the  world.  Society  gTows  rich  in  so- 
cial wealth,  as  its  sources  of  satisfaction  are  mnlti- 
phed  and  deepened,  and  its  power  and  influence 
are  extended.  The  more  society  X3ays  wisely  for  its 
higher  good,  the  more  capacity  it  has  for  the  re- 
ception, enjoyment,  and  dissemination  of  that  good. 
Let  us,  for  illustration,  take  two  men,  representa- 
tives of  classes.  One  is  a man  of  wealth,  who 
hoards  his  money,  or  sj^ends  it  stingily  or  selfishly. 
The  other  is  one  who  spends  freely  of  his  means, 
for  the  culture  of  his  brain  and  his  heart.  The 
sole  satisfaction  of  one  is  in  accumulating  and 
keeping  money.  The  other  delights  in  intellectual 
pursuits,  in  the  gratification  of  his  tastes,  in  the 
exercise  and  culture  of  his  religious  nature,  in  all 
those  things  which  inspire,  feed,  satisfy,  and  build 
up  that  which  is  his  manhood.  Tell  me,  which  of 
these  two  men  is  of  the  more  value  to  himself? 
Plainly  he  who  possesses  the  best  and  the  largest 
number  of  sources  of  satisfaction.  If  these  two 
men  could  possibly  exchange  places  with  each 
other,  the  miser  would  make  an  infinite  gain,  and 
the  man  would  make  an  infinite  loss.  The  man  i^ 


240 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION. 


worth  more  to  himself  than  the  miser,  because  his 
sources  of  satisfaction  are  better,  are  more  varied 
and  numerous,  are  perfectly  reliable,  are  inaUen- 
able,  and  are  constantly  deepening  and  extending. 
What  is  true  of  an  individual  is  true  of  society. 
Society  becomes  rich  in  power,  rich  in  sources  of 
satisfaction,  rich  in  character,  rich  in  influence, 
and  of  value  to  itself  and  the  world,  according  to 
the  amount  of  its  sacrifices  for  those  institutions 
on  whose  prosperity  the  progress  of  society  mainly 
depends.  There  can  never  be  good  society  with- 
out good  social  institutions,  and  there  can  be  no 
good  social  institutions  without  sacrifice. 

I ask  you  to  look  at  this  largess  of  recompense — 
this  threefold  reward,  touching  and  enriching  every 
interest,  and  then  be  mean  in  any  expenditure  for 
social  good  if  you  can. 

Thus  far  in  this  discussion,  even  when  treating 
society  as  an  organic,  independent  entity,  I have 
spoken  of  this  law  mainly  as  it  apphes  to  the  indi- 
vidual hfe  of  men.  There  is  a broader  view  of  the 
law,  remaining  to  be  presented;  and  this  covers  its 
relation  to  the  national  life.  The  painter  who 
composes  a picture  that  is  to  cover  a broad  canvas, 
paints  a small  one  first,  which  he  calls  “a  study;” 
the  architect  who  designs  a cathedral,  draws  it  first 
upon  a small  scale:  and  both  painter  and  architect 
do  this  that  they  may  keep  their  masses  of  detail 
within  hmits  which  the  eye  can  embrace  at  a 
glance.  We,  too,  shall  find  it  for  our  advantage, 
before  undertaking  to  get  a view  of  a nation  as  a 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


241 


grand,  organic  life,  to  study  some  smaller  kindred 
life — sucli,  for  instance,  as  we  may  find  in  a great 
city. 

A gi*eat  city  is  a liuge  living  creature,  with 
life  and  breath  and  motives,  and  power  and  pride 
and  destiny.  Its  being  is  just  as  distinct  as  that 
of  a man.  If  we  could  be  hfted  above  it,  and  ob- 
tain, not  a bird’s-eye  view,  but  a God’s-eye  view  of 
it,  we  should  see  its  arteries  throbbing  with  the 
majestic  cmrents  of  life,  pushed  out  from  its  cen- 
tre to  its  remotest  chcumference,  and  returning 
through  a multitude  of  avenues;  fleets  of  winged 
messengers  and  ministers  hanging  and  fluttering 
upon  its  wave-washed  borders  like  a fringe;  breath 
of  steam  and  smoke  rising  from  its  lungs;  food  re- 
ceived by  cargoes,  and  offal  discharged  by  count- 
less hidden  estuaries  into  the  all-hiding  and  all- 
purifying  sea;  grand  forces  of  animal  life  and 
gi-ander  forces  of  art  and  nature  harnessed  to  cease- 
less service;  couriers  of  fire  flashing  forth  on  their 
way  to  other  cities,  or  returning  from  them  with 
freights  of  life  and  treasure  at  their  heels;  and, 
over  all,  a robe  of  august  architectural  beauty, 
broidered  with  the  thoughts  of  the  ages,  and  gar- 
nished with  the  greenery  of  parks  and  lawns.  And 
this  body,  embracing  all  the  varieties  of  human  and 
animal  life,  and  all  the  matter  and  material  forces 
whose  form  and  movements  are  apparent  to  the  eye, 
is  a hving  organism,  and  has  a soul.  Descending 
into  it,  we  shall  find  it  the  subject  of  laws  which  it 
makes,  and  laws  which  it  does  not  make.  Wo 


212 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION. 


sliall  find  it  a network  of  interests,  with  congeries 
of  interests,  acting  and  reacting  upon  one  another. 
We  shall  find  it  with  a moral  character  and  a moral 
infiuence.  We  shall  find  it  with  a heart,  will,  and 
culture,  peculiarities  of  disposition  and  genius  and 
taste,  just  as  distinct  among  the  great  cities  of  the 
world  as  those  of  a great  man  among  the  great 
men  of  the  world.  What  a contrast  of  individuahty 
and  character  do  the  two  words  London  and  Paris 
suggest!  Light  and  darkness  convey  ideas  hardly 
more  diverse.  New  York,  Boston,  Philadelphia, 
Baltimore,  Chicago,  Cincinnati — how  distinct  the 
individuality  which  each  of  these  words  represents 
to  us!  Bring  before  your  imagination  six  great 
men,  and  you  shall  not  find  them  more  different  in 
aU  that  goes  to  make  up  their  characteristic  man- 
hood, than  these  cities  are  in  all  that  constitutes 
their  individuahty.  They  are,  I have  no  doubt,  in 
the  eye  of  God,  organic  creations,  made  up  of  an 
aggregate  of  humanity  and  human  powers,  peculi- 
arities, and  possessions,  which  have  an  interest,  as 
such,  independent  of  the  individuals  which  com- 
pose them.  They  have  interests  that  over-ride  per- 
sonal interests,  subordinating  the  man  to  the  city, 
and  a hfe  and  development  of  their  own. 

It  is  said  that  the  particles  in  the  human  body 
are  changed  every  seven  years.  This  can  almost 
be  said  of  a city,  regarding  men  and  women  as  the 
constituent  units.  Certainly  these  units  are  changed 
every  generation,  but  still  the  city  lives.  A man 
falls  dead  upon  the  sidewalk,  or  dies  quietly  in  his 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION. 


243 


bed.  Does  the  city  feel  it?  His  funeral  will  make 
part  of  the  hfe  of  to-morrow.  A few  tears  around 
a bier,  a few  clods  upon  a grave,  a little  family 
draped  in  black,  and  new  life  rushes  to  fill  the 
place  made  vacant  by  his  departure!  Day  brings 
its  roar  and  night  its  rest,  and  there  is  no  pause; 
there  is  not  even  a shudder  at  the  extinction  of  a 
life.  Twenty  generations  will  pass  away,  and  the 
great  city  which  we  see  to-day  will  be  gi’eater  still. 
The  giant  will  be  more  gigantic,  though  not  a Hfe 
remains  that  even  remembers  the  life  of  to-day. 

Thus,  in  this  picture  of  a city,  we  have  the  study 
for  a picture  of  a nation.  I use  the  word  nation, 
because  a nation  in  healthful  life  cannot  be  consid- 
ered apart  from  the  country  which  is  its  dwelling- 
place,  and  because  the  word  brings  us  closer  to 
humanity  than  the  word  country. 

Take  this  study  now — so  small  that  we  can  meas- 
ure it  and  comprehend  its  details  with  a glance 
of  the  eye — and  spread  it  upon  the  canvas.  We 
have  here  a Colossus,  the  constituent  units  of  which 
are  men,  certainly,  but  men  in  cities,  men  in  villa- 
ges, men  in  townships,  counties,  States.  Here  is  a 
gi’and  organic  being,  with  a range  of  life  reaching 
through  long  millenniums;  with  a character  and  a 
manifestation  of  life  peculiar  to  itself,  and  just  as 
different  from  the  other  nations  of  the  world  as 
London  is  difierent  from  Paris,  or  Boston  from 
New  York,  or  Henry  Clay  from  Daniel  Webster, 
or  Abraham  Lincoln  from  Jefferson  Davis.  As  we 
look  down  upon  it,  we  find  navigable  rivers  and 


244 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION. 


lines  of  railroad  and  canal  taking  tlie  place  of 
streets;  continental  stretches  of  coast  haunted  by 
sail  and  steam,  instead  of  wharves  and  harbor  bus- 
tle: universal  production  and  transportation  in 
place  of  limited  trade;  instead  of  wreathed  smoke, 
the  breath  of  climates,  drawn  in  in  storms,  and  ex- 
pired in  mists  that  drape  the  sky  with  the  glory  of 
the  clouds;  and,  shaming  into  insignificance  the 
sorry  piles  of  brick  and  stone  which  we  call  architec- 
ture, grand  mountain-ranges,  “rock-ribbed  and 
ancient  as  the  sun;”  fertile  valleys  that  hold  within 
their  broad  bosoms  milk  for  a continent:  vast  for- 
ests that  bury  their  feet  in  the  mould  of  uncounted 
centuries;  lakes  that  glow  alone  like  gems,  or 
stretch  across  a continent  their  chain  of  silver;  and 
scattered  over  all,  informing  all,  making  its  mark 
upon  all,  appropriating  all,  a vast  organized  human 
life.  This  is  the  nation — body,  and  soul,  and  be- 
longings. This  is  the  grandest  organized  hfe  that 
the  world  knows.  The  hfe  of  hundreds  of  millions 
is  swallowed  up  in  this  life.  It  draws  into  itself 
the  blood  of  a thousand  generations,  and  tinctures 
that  Ifiood  with  its  own  quality — gives  it  its  own 
law.  What  makes  a man  an  Englishman? — birth 
in  England?  What  constitutes  an  American? — 
generation  under  a Western  sky?  Why  is  a 
Frenchman  a Frenchman! — because  he  drew  his 
first  breath  in  France?  Nay.  These  men  are  not 
born  into  England,  America,  and  France,  so  much 
as  these  countries  are  born  into  these  men.  This 
great,  aU-subordinating  national  hfe  begets  and 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


245 


bears  its  own:  so  tliat,  meet  whom  you  may  where 
you  may,  you  shall  find  his  national  mark  upon 
him,  and  all  over  him,  and  all  through  him — color- 
ing his  skin,  characterizing  his  frame,  tinting  his 
eyes,  and,  in  the  large  view,  determining  the  char- 
acter of  his  mental  constitution,  Chmate,  food,  in- 
stitutions, pursuits,  religion — all  contribute  to 
make  him  what  he  is. 

Now  this  great  creature  which  we  call  a nation — 
one  of  the  gigantic  units  in  God’s  universe — which, 
in  its  aggregate  of  influences,  colors  and  character- 
izes the  individual  fife  of  which  it  is  composed,  is, 
in  turn,  colored  and  characterized  by  that  hfe.  Its 
action  is  the  expression  of  the  sum  of  individual 
motives,  and  its  character  the  sum  of  individual 
character.  The  sum  of  all  Americans  makes 
America,  and  America  makes  Americans  what  they 
are. 

We  shall  find  that  a nation’s  constitution  and 
law  of  hfe  are  at  least  fairly  illustrated  by  those  of 
the  individual  man.  A nation  has  grand  material 
interests;  and  it  may  become  mean  and  miserly 
like  a man.  It  has  lusts  and  passions,  and  it  may 
commit  all  crimes  to  gratify  its  greed  for  power 
and  its  passion  for  glory.  It  may  be  so  fond  of 
ease  that  it  will  permit  its  liberties  to  be  stolen 
from  it.  It  may  have  a will  so  stubborn  and  unrea- 
sonable that  it  will  sacrifice  for  its  gratification 
peace  and  prosperity,  in  quarrels  with  other  na- 
tions. It  may  have  the  vice  of  pride,  so  that  it 
will  take  offence  at  every  fancied  insult,  and  be 


246 


GOBT  AND  COMFhNSATIOK 


haughty  and  insolent  in  all  its  intercourse.  It  may 
be  under  the  control  of  the  lowest  grade  of  mo- 
tives; and,  on  the  other  hand,  it  may  bow  loyally 
to  the  highest.  It  may  hold  wealth  subordinate 
and  subsidiary  to  those  institutions  and  policies 
which  tend  to  popular  competence  and  comfort. 
It  may  sacrifice  its  passion  for  power  to  national 
comity,  and  the  desire  for  the  peace  and  the  good- 
will of  the  world.  It  may  subordinate  its  love  of 
ease  to  the  vigilant  guardianship  and  defence  of  its 
rights.  It  may  give  up  its  will  and  its  pride  for 
the  security  of  its  peace  and  prosperity,  or  from 
higher  motives  of  Christian  principle. 

In  the  case  of  a nation,  as  in  that  of  a man,  an 
inferior  possession  is  to  be  sacrificed  as  the  price 
of  a superior  good,  and  this  superior  good  can  be 
had  at  this  price,  and  cannot  be  had  without  it. 
Whatever  of  true  glory  has  been  won  by  any  na- 
tion of  the  earth;  w^hatever  great  advance  has  been 
made  by  any  nation  in  that  which  constitutes  a 
high  Christian  civilization,  has  been  always  at  the 
cost  of  sacrifice — has  cost  the  price  marked  upon  it 
in  God’s  inventory  of  national  good. 

Now  what  are  the  items  in  this  divine  schedule? 
I will  name  some  of  them;  and  first,  freedom — 
freedom  of  person  and  pursuit,  freedom  of  thought 
and  worship,  freedom  of  expression  by  type  and 
tongue.  Where  freedom  is  wanting,  the  highest 
national  good  is  wanting,  for  it  is  not  only  a good 
in  itself,  but  it  is  the  condition  of  all  other  national 
good.  Without  it,  there  is  nothing  in  national  life 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


247 


that  is  not  base.  After  the  freedom  of  the  citizen 
intelligence  and  virtue;  then  good,  competent, 
Christian  rulers,  selected  because  they  are  com- 
XDetent  and  Christian,  and  because  they  secure  jus- 
tice and  humanity  in  the  administration  of  law,  and 
purity  in  office.  Then  peace  and  security,  without 
which  no  national  possession,  high  or  low,  is  valu- 
able. And  with  security  and  peace  and  a Christian 
administration  of  law,  a studied  and  consistent 
pohcy  which  shall  encourage  all  that  is  deskable 
in  morals,  education,  literature,  and  art.  Then 
fraternal  concord,  and  harmony  of  sections  and  in- 
terests. I do  not  need  to  mention  a humane,  hon- 
orable, and  Christian  character,  for  it  is  ahke  the 
source  and  sequence  of  all  this  desiderated  good. 
Still  less  do  I need  to  mention  patriotism — the  warm 
and  devoted  love  of  all  the  nation’s  children  for 
their  government  and  their  fatherland;  for  such  a 
nation  as  this  must  be  made  of  patriots,  who  glory 
in  their  national  name,  and  who  are  willing  to  sac- 
rifice everything  to  that  which  is  truly  national 
glory. 

All  the  good  which  has  been  named,  and  all  that 
is  related  to  it,  or  associated  with  it,  has  a price; 
and  this  price  must  be  paid,  or  the  good  cannot  be 
secured.  Glance  with  me,  for  a moment,  at  one 
or  two  points  of  our  early  national  history,  that  wo 
may  have  convenient  illustration.  Look  at  that 
little  band  of  pilgrims  that  planted  their  feet  on 
Plymouth  Bock,  nearly  two  centuries  and  a half 
ago.  Watch  them  throughout  the  trials  of  that  first 


248 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION, 


winter,  when  half  of  them  laid  down  their  lives; 
and  watch  them  still  through  all  their  subsequent 
struggles  with  the  native  tribes.  See  them  win- 
ning their  bread  by  the  hardest,  lodging  in  rude 
cabins,  and  ground  almost  into  the  earth  by  small 
economies,  and,  at  the  same  time,  planting  school- 
houses  and  building  churches.  Mark  how  every 
act  of  their  lives  was  a sacrifice — ^how  every  founda- 
tion-stone of  this  national  temple  of  ours  was  laid 
in  sacrifice.  Mark,  further,  how  whole  generations 
of  associated  colonial  Hfe  built  in  sacrifice  upon 
these  foundations,  cementing  the  whole  structure 
with  sweat  and  tears  and  blood.  Did  it  pay?  I 
do  not  ask  now  whether  it  paid  them.  That  ques- 
tion has  already  been  disposed  of.  Regarding  the 
nation  as  an  organic  individual,  I ask  whether  these 
sacrifices  secured  any  commensurate  national  good? 
Was  it  a wise  and  profitable  investment  on  the 
part  of  the  nation?  There  is  but  one  answer  to 
this  question. 

If  there  is  one  fact  that  shines  out  with  unques- 
tioned radiance  from  the  history  of  all  time,  it  is, 
that  by  the  pangs  of  that  mother-period — as  neces- 
sary, as  unavoidable,  as  the  pangs  of  human  birth 
— was  the  fairest  nation  born  that  Time  counts 
among  her  children.  All  down  these  two  long 
centuries  has  the  nation  been  reaping  in  joy  what 
then  she  sowed  in  tears.  There  was  not  a hard- 
ship endured,  not  a drop  of  bloodshed,  not  a hfe 
laid  down,  in  vain.  There  was  not  one  sacrifice  for 
principle,  not  one  unselfish  effort  for  the  general 


COST  AXD  COMPENSATION. 


21'J 

good,  not  one  treasure  of  time,  or  ease,  or  vitality 
surrendered;  tliat  miscarried  of  its  purpose. 

Still  later  came  those  sacrifices  that  won  our  na- 
tional independence.  Independence  was  a good 
that  had  a price,  and  a heavy  price  it  proved  to  be. 
Those  brave,  enduring,  patient  three  millions  paid 
it.  Seven  years  of  war,  for  what?  What  was  a 
Little  tax  on  tea?  What  mattered  the  stamp  on 
paper?  It  did  not  amount  to  much — ^not  a thou- 
sandth part  as.  much  as  a war  should  cost.  Ah! 
but  a principle  was  involved.  Here  was  taxation 
without  representation — tribute  demanded,  and  a 
voice  in  tlie  government  and  even  respectful  peti- 
tions denied — and  this  was  oppression.  Popular 
rights  were  not  only  unrecognized,  but  trampled 
upon.  The  colonies  which  had  already  sacrificed 
much  to  establish  their  life  as  colonies,  determined 
to  be  independent  of  a power  that  abused  them, 
and  bent  themselves  patiently  to  the  task  of  pay- 
ing the  price  which  their  independence  would  cost 
them.  Seven  years  of  war!  Seven  years  of  blood, 
of  hardship,  of  crippled  prosperity,  ending  in  total 
financial  wreck;  seven  years  of  weeping  and  watch- 
ing, of  scanty  food  and  scantier  clothing;  seven 
years  of  anxiety  and  difference  in  the  public  coun- 
cils, and  of  quarrels  with  public  servants,  even  the 
spotless  Washington  being  accused  of  the  grossest 
political  crimes;  seven  years  of  vigilance  against 
the  intrigues  of  tories,  who  worked  in  the  interest 
of  the  enemy,  and  clamored  for  peace;  seven  years 
of  what  seemed  to  the  observing  nations  of  the 


250 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION. 


world  to  be  tbe  hopeless  straggle  of  a colonial 
handful  with  the  most  gigantic  military  and  naval 
power  of  the  earth. 

The  end  finally  came.  The  price  was  all  paid 
to  the  last  drop  of  blood  and  the  last  tear — to  the 
last  hardship  and  heart-ache;  and  the  coveted  boon 
was  won.  From  this  long  struggle  the  nation  rose 
a bankrupt  in  everything  but  that  one  prize  it  had 
sacrificed  every  material  good  to  obtain.  It  was 
independent,  and  had  its  destiny  in  its  own  hands. 
Was  the  new  possession  worth  its  cost  ? Let  the 
history  of  the  last  eighty  years  answer.  We  have 
grown  from  three  to  more  than  tliii'ty  millions. 
Never  in  the  history  of  the  world  has  a nation  had 
such  enormous  growth,  or  such  marvellous  prosper- 
ity. The  oppressed  of  all  nations  have  found  an 
asylum  with  us.  It  is  no  idle  boast,  but  sober  fact, 
that  we  stand  to-day,  as  a nation,  without  a rival  in 
the  world  in  general  intelligence,  morality,  and 
material  resources. 

The  American  nation  developed  in  its  symmetry 
from  the  point  of  its  independence.  Colonial  life 
was  childhood:  independent  life  was  manhood.  If 
we,  for  a moment,  suppose  that  this  price  had  not 
been  paid,  we  shall  get  a suggestion  of  the  meas- 
ure of  good  we  should  miss.  It  would  reduce  our 
thirty  millions  to  ten,  and  make  a contemptible 
Canada  of  our  magnificent  empire.  Time  would 
fail  me  to  indicate  the  variety  of  good  which  the 
nation  has  received  from  the  sacrifices  of  the  Rev- 
olution, and  imagination  could  not  compass  the 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION, 


251 


amount.  It  is  enough  that  none  can  deny  that  the 
reward  for  these  sacrifices  has  been  unspeakably 
munificent. 

These  illustrations  are  Wo,  among  the  thousands 
furnished  by  the  history  of  the  world.  I choose 
them  because  they  need  no  treatment.  You  are 
familiar  with  all  the  facts,  and  these  facts  teach  us 
that  this  law  of  cost  and  compensation,  beginning, 
as  we  have  seen,  in  the  life  of  the  individual  man, 
runs  up  through  aU  the  social  and  civil  organiza- 
tions and  institutions  of  men;  that  all  those  treas- 
ures 'which  a nation  holds  dearest — its  freedom, 
unity,  independence,  peace,  security,  prosperity, 
character,  and  position — have  their  price  in  the 
free  sacrifice  of  inferior  good;  that  those  treasures 
are  not  only  won  at  a cost  but  kept  at  a cost;  and 
that  no  national  sacrifice  can  possibly  be  made,  in 
the  right  spirit,  for  high  ends,  that  does  not,  by 
an  immutable  law  of  God,  procure  a grand  re- 
ward. 

Give  and  get;  sacrifice  and  win:  expend  and 
grow  rich;  minister  and  be  helped — this  is  the  les- 
son of  our  lecture;  and  it  is  a lesson  necessary  to  be 
learned  before  the  first  step  can  be  taken  in  indi- 
•vidual,  social,  and  national  progress.  For  our 
own  good,  God  puts  us  on  a business  footing  'with 
Himself;  and  he  is  the  only  reliable  paymaster. 
Do  not  be  deceived  by  appearances.  If  payment 
does  not  come  at  once,  in  return  for  a sacrifice,  it 
is  because  you  have  only  paid  ah  instalment.  Italy 
paid  for  her  unity  in  instalments.  Rome  has  made 


252 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION 


one  instalment  of  the  price  for  her  hberty.  When 
the  price  is  paid,  she  will  have  it.  Hungary 
has  paid  one  instalment.  Wait  until  she  pays  an- 
other, and  another,  and  perhaps  still  another,  and 
Ave  shall  learn,  at  last,  the  price  of  her  independ 
ence. 

As  I come  to  my  closing  page,  I cannot  choose 
but  think  of  him  whom  the  nation  loved — the  pure, 
the  wise,  the  gentle,  the  true — stricken  from  his 
high  place  by  the  hand  of  the  assassin — every  man’s 
father,  brother,  and  friend — the  sweetest,  noblest, 
costliest  sacrifice  ever  laid  upon  the  altar  of  free- 
dom. 1 cannot  choose  but  think  of  half  a miUion 
of  men  who,  alive  four  years  ago,  sleep  in  the  sol- 
dier’s grave  to-day.  They  perished,  some  of  them, 
beneath  the  fiery  crest  of  battle,  some  of  them  after 
the  wave  had  passed,  and  only  the  stars  saw  and 
pitied  them,  some  of  them  in  hospitals,  some  in 
ambulances,  some  of  them  in  the  sea — all  of  them 
for  their  country  and  its  holy  cause,  with  a patri- 
otic enthusiasm  that  rose  to  a subhme  faith  in  their 
country’s  future,  and  a prophecy  of  its  permanent 
glory  and  peace.  I see,  too,  a million  women 
draped  in  black — mothers,  daughters,  sisters,  wives, 
lovers,  of  those  who  have  given  their  fives  to  the 
great  cause.  There  is  mourning  in  the  land — 
mourning  all  over  the  land.  Not  a battle  has  been 
fought  that  did  not  shake  the  nation’s  breast  with 
one  great  sob  of  sorrov/.  I see  a great  sacrifice  of 
treasure — time,  industry,  money,  vitality,  ease — 
more  than  I can  comi^ute  : more,  indeed,  than  will 


COST  AND  COMPENSATION. 


253 


ever  be  computed.  I see  a long  period  of  taxation 
for  ourselves  and  our  children:  but  I see  beyond 
all  these,  piled  quietly  against  a golden  sky,  moun- 
tains of  compensation,  bright  with  the  hues  of  a 
glorious  peace,  and  holding  within  their  purple 
bosoms  treasures  for  the  endowment  of  aU  the  com- 
ing generations  of  men. 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


►EIMITIYE  art  must  have  been  as  humble, 


JL  and  its  character  as  simple,  as  the  life  from 
which  it  sprang  and  to  which  it  ministered.  It 
was  the  creature  of  rude  utility,  having  relation 
only  to  man’s  material  necessities — to  the  dressing 
and  keeping  of  a garden,  and  the  stitching  of  fig- 
leaves.  It  was  entirely  natural  and  rational  that 
Jabal,  Adah’s  first-born,  should  be  the  father  of 
such  as  dwell  in  tents  and  have  cattle,  and  that  her 
later  son,  Jubal,  should  be  the  father  of  such  as 
handle  the  harp  and  organ ; though  I doubt  not 
that  Tubal-Cain  wrought  brass  and  iron,  and  was 
a favorite  in  the  family  for  a good  many  years  be- 
fore Jubal  effected  much  in  instrumental  music. 

It  may  be  presumed  that  the  arts  necessary  for 
securing  food  and  raiment  and  shelter  were  those 
which  had  first  development.  They  lay  nearest 
the  outreaching  life  of  a new  race.  They  were 
born  of  the  natural,  animal  want  to  which  they 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


255 


ministered.  They  were  the  first  things  on  which 
the  instinct  of  self-preservation  laid  its  hand. 
Ideas  were  an  after-growth,  and  their  expression  in 
sound,  and  form,  and  color,  and  language,  an  after- 
fact. When  Jubal  played  his  first  tune,  he  opened 
the  golden  gate  to  a new  realm.  Music  was  a thing 
of  the  soul — a rose-Hpped  shell  that  murmured  of 
the  eternal  sea — a strange  bird  singing  the  songs 
of  another  shore.  In  this  first  expression  of  the 
soul,  high  art  had  its  birth.  The  art  which  had 
preceded  it  had  its  origin  and  end  in  the  material ; 
high  art  began  and  ended  in  the  spiritual;  and  this 
later  development  is  so  exalted  above  the  former, 
that  we  make  the  generic  title  specific,  and  call  it 
Aet. 

I propose  to  address  you  upon  art  and  life — art 
as  the  expression  of  life,  and  life  as  the  end  of  art. 
My  first  proposition  is,  that  God  and  His  creation, 
or  God  and  nature,  are  the  first  facts  in  all  life  and 
all  art.  Nature  is  the  expression  of  God’s  self  and 
of  God’s  life  ; legitimate  art  is  the  expression  of 
that  which  is  godlike  in  man  and  in  man’s  life.  I 
only  need  to  assume,  what  you  will  all  admit,  that 
man  is  God’s  child,  bearing  His  image,  and  partak- 
ing of  His  essence,  to  show  that  the  expression  of 
Himself  and  of  His  life,  when  l)oth  are  in  their  nor- 
mal estate,  must  necessarily  be  after  the  order  of 
nature  and  in  the  style  of  nature.  If  that  which  is 
greatest  and  best  in  man  be  lilte  God,  then  that 
which  is  greatest  and  best  in  art  must  be  like  na- 
ture. It  is  from  this  fact,  and  from  no  other  fact, 


266 


CO^T  AND  COMPENSATION 


that  nature  becomes  in  some  respects  a standard 
by  which  to  test  the  forms  and  qualities  of  art;  that 
is,  of  the  highest  art,  which  is  essential  creation. 

To  develop  my  idea  of  art  in  its  higher  manifes- 
tations, I begin  at  its  lower.  God  expresses  an 
idea  in  a beautiful  landscape;  man,  admiring  it, 
expresses  himself  by  painting  its  picture.  God 
makes  a man  of  bone  and  brawn  and  blood:  man 
imitates  the  form  as  closely  as  he  may  in  marble, 
God  builds  the  forest,  and  man  repeats  the  sweep 
of  its  arches  and  the  lines  of  its  tracery  in  cathe- 
drals. In  the  roUing  thunder  and  the  hoarse  cat- 
aract, God  speaks  to  man  with  audible  voice,  and 
writes  his  thoughts  in  woods  and  mountain-ranges, 
and  stars  and  grass  and  flowers.  So  man  speaks 
his  thoughts  to  men  by  audible  sounds  and  visible 
signs.  God  makes  instruments  of  music,  and  His 
great  hfe  plays  through  them.  The  sounding 
shore,  the  gurgling  brook,  the  roaring  storm,  the 
plashing  waterfall — ^beasts,  birds,  and  insects — 
weave  their  separate  melodies  into  august  harmo- 
nies. Man,  too,  makes  instruments  of  music,  and 
breathes  through  them  the  melodies  and  the  har- 
monies of  his  life. 

So  far,  man  expresses  the  life  in  him  through 
iiis  faculty  of  imitation.  He  simply  takes  in  from 
nature,  and  gives  out  what  he  receives.  Natui’e  is 
his  nurse  and  his  teacher.  She  speaks,  and  he 
faintly  and  imperfectly  repeats  her  words.  At  this 
]3oint,  what  we  call  talent  in  man  stops;  beyond 
this  point  talent  never  goes.  It  may  flutter  and 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


257 


mount;  with  many  a graceful  gyration,  but  it  cannot 
surpass  it.  Genius  may  imitate,  and  even  in  imita- 
tion show  its  divinity;  but  it  goes  along  into  the 
higher  realms  of  art.  Genius  only  can  create  and 
compose.  Nature  may  educate  and  correct  genius; 
but  its  expression  is  the  expression  of  a life  unbor- 
rowed from  nature — a hfe  instituted,  informed,  and 
inspired  by  God  Himself.  If  genius  lays  nature 
under  tribute,  it  is  for  materials — not  insjDiration. 
It  chooses  from  nature,  and  moulds  to  its  will;  it 
assimilates  nature  to  itself,  and  then  utters  it  as  its 
own  expression.  Nature  is  the  master  of  talent; 
genius  is  the  master  of  nature.  Genius  acts  from 
the  centre  to  the  circumference,  as  a power  of  crea- 
tion and  order;  talent  gathers  from  the  circumfer- 
ence, and  utters  only  what  it  gathers.  Genius 
originates  ideas  and  invents  forms;  talent  adopts 
ideas  and . imitates  forms.  Talent  is  instructed; 
genius  is  inspired. 

My  second  proposition  is,  that  nature,  which  is 
an  expression  of  God’s  life,  is  not  an  end  in  itself, 
but  is  addressed  to  life,  and  has  its  end  in  life. 
The  whole  structure  of  the  universe — the  blue  ex- 
panse above  our  heads,  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  con- 
stellations, the  atmosphere  which  invests  us,  the 
great  ocean,  trackless,  fathomless,  boundless;  all 
of  inanimate  nature  that  we  see — is  utterly  without 
significance  and  without  value,  save  as  it  relates  to 
hfe — the  hfe  to  which  it  ministers  and  from  which 
it  proceeds.  Not  only  inorganic  but  organic  na- 
ture, in  aU  its  subordinate  forms,  relates  to  a hfe 


258 


ART  AND  LIFK 


above  and  beyond  itself.  The  earth  feeds  the 
grass,  and  the  grass  feeds  the  ox,  and  the  ox  feeds 
the  animal  life  of  man,  and  the  animal  hfe  of  man 
serves  the  higher  life  of  the  human  soul.  We  find 
life  rejoicing  in  every  element  of  nature — swim- 
ming in  the  sea,  flying  through  the  air,  and  rejoic- 
ing on  the  land.  Even  the  old  rocks  of  far-retired 
ages  are  records  of  the  great  fact  that  they  were 
that  life  might  be;  and  they  even  now  bow  their 
Titan  shoulders,  with  patience  and  purpose,  to 
sustain  the  burden  of  that  which  fives  in  the  sun- 
light above' them. 

There  is  not  an  atom  of  matter,  not  a form  of 
beauty  and  grace,  not  a star  in  heaven  nor  a flower 
on  the  earth,  not  a rill  that  cleaves  the  sod  nor  a 
sea  that  chafes  the  shore,  that  does  not  appeal  to 
fife  for  the  justification  of  its  existence. 

Thus  God  becomes  transitive  through  nature, 
into  fife.  There  is  no  such  thing  in  nature  as 
beauty  for  beauty’s  sake;  all  beauty  is  for  man’s 
sake.  The  procession  of  the  seasons,  the  pheno- 
mena of  revolution  and  change,  all  the  magnificent 
machinery  operative  in  the  natural  world,  are  the 
ministry  of  the  fife  of  God  to  the  fife  of  men.  We 
drink  that  fife  from  these  cups.  When  I take  a 
flower  into  my  hand,  and  mark  its  wonderful 
beauty  of  form  and  color,  and  inhale  its  fragrance, 
I know  that  it  is  a thought  of  God  expressed  to  me, 
and  that  one  end  of  its  vahie  is  upheld  by  God’s 
thought  and  the  other  end  by  mine — that,  save  as 
the  expression  of  one  fife,  and  the  apprehension 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


259 


and  appropriation  of  another  life,  conjoined,  it  is 
as  valueless  as  utter  nothing. 

Upon  this  basis  I rest  my  third  proposition,  and 
from  this  I propose  to  develop  the  lesson  of  the 
hour.  This  proposition  is,  that  art  is  not  an  end 
in  itself,  and  that  it  cannot  be  justified,  save  as  it 
ministers  to  a hfe  beyond  itself.  In  other  terms,  art 
intransitive,  without  an  object,  is  a monster,  ille- 
gitimate in  its  origin  and  unjustifiable  in  its  exist- 
ence. A work  of  art,  in  any  department  of  crea- 
tion and  composition,  that  has  no  ministry,  is 
either  a thing  utterly  without  value,  or  a thing  of 
discord  and  mischief.  It  is  not  enough  that  art  be 
true  to  nature,  for  nature  is  not  an  end — it  is  a 
means.  It  is  not  enough  that  the  artist  be  true  to 
himself,  for  he  is  not  the  end  of  art.  It  is  not 
enough  that  he  be  true  to  art,  which  simply  means 
being  true  to  certain  conventional  ideas  and  arbi- 
trary rules,  for  art  is  not  the  end  of  itseK.  Art 
has  a mission  to  hfe,  and  can  only  be  true  art  when 
true  to  life  through  a well-administered  purpose. 
The  question  which  every  true  artist  will  ask  him- 
self before  he  undertakes  expression  wiU  be,  “ What 
have  I,  in  me,  as  the  development  of  my  life,  which 
is  susceptible  of  embodiment,  and  which  I can  em- 
body, in  a form  of  art  that  shall  minister  to  the 
growth  or  the  wealth  of  other  life?” 

Thus  I take  the  standard  of  art  out  of  the  hand 
of  the  artist,  out  of  the  hand  of  art,  and  out  of  the 
hand  of  nature,  and  place  it  in  the  hand  of  life, 
and  bid  the  artist  be  true  to  that.  He  is  not  to 


260 


ART  AND  LIFK 


bow  to  art,  for  art  is  his  servant.  He  is  not  to  bow 
to  nature,  for  nature  is  God’s  servant.  He  is  not 
to  bow  to  himself,  for  he  is  life’s  servant.  He  is 
to  bow  to  life — that  to  which  he  owes  service — that 
which  is  necessary  to  give  to  art  the  shghtest  sig- 
nificance and  value. 

The  question  of  ultimate  purpose  becomes,  then, 
the  very  first  question  in  all  sound  and  rational 
criticism.  Primarily  to  be  settled  is  the  question 
of  intent  upon  one  side  of  a work  of  art,  and  of 
legitimate  or  actual  effect  upon  the  other.  If  the 
intent  and  the  effect  both  be  good,  then  the  exist- 
ence of  the  work  is  justified,  and  the  work  itself 
may  be  approached  critically  from  both  sides; — 
from  both  sides,  I say,  for  the  life  of  the  author 
and  the  life  of  the  age  or  the  people  that  he  ad- 
dresses, furnish  the  only  standpoints  from  which  a 
work  of  art  may  legitimately  be  criticised.  The 
justification  of  a work  of  art  existing  only  in  its  in- 
tent and  effect,  criticism  may  only  decide  whether 
the  intent  have  its  best  possible  embodiment  in  the 
work — ^whether  the  work  embrace  perfectly  the  art- 
ist’s idea,  and  whether  the  end  secured  be  the 
highest  to  be  secured  by  the  idea.  Thus,  if  these 
principles  are  genuine,  are  laid  aside  the  arbitrary 
rules  of  the  schools,  the  notions  and  conventional- 
isms of  a pestiferous  dilettanti,  the  tests  and  stand- 
ards born  of  the  usages  of  the  masters;  and  the 
very  soul  and  substance  of  criticism  is  brought 
within  the  compass  of  a nutshell,  and  the  compre- 
hension of  all. 


ART  AND  LIFK 


261 


To  illustrate:  we  find  spread  over  our  heads  a 
canopy  of  blue.  If,  for  the  nonce,  we  assume  the 
interpretation  of  the  purposes  of  the  Creator,  this 
color  was  selected  through  the  reach  of  His  contriv- 
ance to  present  to  the  eye  a soft  and  pleasant  tint 
to  meet  its  outlook  into  space.  This  sky  is  a work 
of  natime,  marvellously  beautiful.  The  intent  is 
good;  the  end  is  good;  and  its  existence  is  justified. 
Now  let  us  approach  this  work  as  critics.  We  are 
now  ready  to  ask  whether  blue,  of  all  the  colors  of 
the  spectrum,  is  the  best  to  paint  a sky  with — 
whether  blue,  of  all  those  colors,  is  the  most  agree- 
able to  the  eye  when  looking  into  space,  or  whether 
some  other  color,  or  combination  of  colors,  would 
be  better.  If  we  can  prove  that  some  other  color 
would  be  better  for  this  purpose,  then  we  can 
prove  that  the  work,  as  a work  of  nature,  is  imiDer  * 
feet.  But  no : we  say  that  it  is  the  embodiment  of 
God’s  best  thought,  in  God’s  best  way,  for  the  best 
achievement  of  a great  and  good  purpose,  relating 
to  the  hfe  of  His  children.  This  conclusion  would, 
of  course,  follow  the  critical  examination  of  every 
other  work  of  nature  which  which  we  are  acquaint- 
ed. And  this  is  my  key  not  only  to  all  art  but  to 
all  criticism. 

I have  exhibited  these  principles,  as  the  ground 
of  my  justification  in  declaring  the  prevalent  ideas 
of  art  to  be  mainly  a mass  of  crude  conceits  and 
inconsistent  notions.  I have  exhibited  them,  that 
the  people  may  assume  for  themselves  a rational 
judgment  of  art,  and  enter  upon  a domain  from 


262 


ART  AXD  LIFE. 


which  they  have  hitherto  been  excluded — upon 
which  they  have  not  even  presumed  to  enter. 
Hitherto,  this  domain  has  been  the  domain  of  mys- 
tery. Art  itself  looms  upon  the  popular  appre- 
hension as  a phantom — a great,  shadowy,  subhme 
something,  into  whose  presence  only  a favored  few 
may  come;  into  whose  counsels  and  secrets  only 
the  world’s  elite  may  be  admitted.  It  cannot  be 
approached  through  any  of  the  ordinary  channels 
of  knowledge.  Science,  laden  with  the  spoils  of  na- 
ture’s arcana,  stops  embarrassed  before  this  phan- 
tom, and  bows  and  retires.  Philosophy  confronts 
it  with  boldness  and  determination,  only  to  see  it 
vanish  into  the  impalpa,ble  and  the  incomprehen- 
sible. Wisdom,  that  has  gathered  into  its  store- 
house the  wealth  of  all  lands  and  all  languages, 
may  not  even  give  it  good-morrow  without  betray- 
ing the  accent  of  the  unsophisticated.  Only  those 
whose  eyes  have  been  anointed  may  see;  only 
those  whose  ears  have  been  touched  may  hear; 
only  the  mind  that  has  been  miraculously  quick- 
ened may  conceive  the  marvels  of  a world  the 
brightest  glories  of  which  found  their  birth  in  the 
inspirations  of  paganism,  and  were  addressed  to  an 
age  of  sensuality  and  shame. 

Homage  to  the  old,  the  useless,  and  the  arbitrary, 
is  the  price  of  that  which  is  called  the  artistic 
sense.  At  the  shrine  of  this  absurd  trinity,  Chris- 
tian manhood,  truth,  and  purity  must  kneel  with 
votive  offerings.  On  its  altar  must  they  sacrifice 
their  first-born  sense  of  the  tasteful  and  truthful. 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


263 


in  order  to  procure  a vision  of  that  which  is  in- 
scrutable to  natural  eyes,  and  a love  of  that  which 
appeals  to  no  natural  appetite  or  aptitude.  So 
true  is  this  that  the  conviction  is  almost  universal 
that  artistic  sense,  or  artistic  taste,  is  a thing  never , 
inborn,  but  always  acquired — that  it  is  itself  a thing 
of  art,  or  something  which  proceeds  from  art. 
The  multitude  acknowledge  that  they  know  noth- 
ing of  art.  They  see  an  old  painting  that  they 
'would  hesitate  to  give  a dollar  for  at  an  auction- 
shop,  sold  for  a hundred  guineas — “a  phantom  of 
dehght”  to  critics  and  connoisseurs— and  they 
shake  their  heads  in  profound  self-disgust.  They 
see  a select  few  go  into  raptures  over  the  long- 
drawn,  dreary  iterations  and  reiterations  of  a sym- 
phony, and  confess  that  they  know  nothing  of  mu- 
sic. They  read  a literary  performance  which  stirs 
and  insph’es  them — wdiich  elevates  and  enlarges 
them — which  fills  them  with  delight  and  satisfac- 
tion; and  are  shocked  and  chagrined  to  learn,  at 
the  end  of  the  month,  by  the  shrewd  critic  of  the 
review,  that  they  have  been  so  vulgar  as  to  be 
pleased  with  something  that  tramples  upon  every 
rule  of  art. 

So  the  people  sit  do'wn,  and  heave  the  sigh  of 
humble  despair.  Art  is  something  beyond  them — 
something  above  them.  It  is  high;  they  cannot 
attain  unto  it.  It  is  profound;  they  may  not 
fathom  it.  Now  this  idea  of  art,  as  it  is  held  alike 
by  the  initiated  and  the  uninitiated,  has  its  birth 
in  distrust  of  the  great  truth  that  art  is  alike  'with- 


264 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


out  meaning  and  without  value  save  a>s  it  ministers 
to  life  by  direct  purpose;  the  great  truth  that  all 
true  art  is  but  a life-bearer  from  him  who  utters  to 
him  who  receives.  Art,  as  I have  said  before,  is 
not  an  end  in  itself;  and  the  only  reason  why  art 
has  done  no  more  for  the  civilization  and  exalta- 
tion of  mankind  is  that  artists,  and  the  self- consti- 
tuted arbiters  of  art,  have  hedged  it  in  from  the 
life  of  mankind.  They  actually  put  a work  of  art 
under  ban  which  bears  a mission  to  life,  for  the 
reason  that  it  bears  a mission.  In  their  view,  a 
work  of  art  is  actually  prostituted  by  the  burden  of 
a mission.  If  a lesson  of  life  is  to  be  conveyed, 
they  would  let  the  school-master  and  parson  bear 
it.  It  must  not  profane  the  backs  of  the  dapper 
gentlemen  who  do  the  sublime  and  beautiful  for 
them.  The  art-critic  of  to-day  contemns  and  de- 
rides a work  which  has  any  intent  in  it  beyond  the 
satisfaction  of  the  critical  judgment  of  himself  and 
his  precious  fraternity. 

You  will  readily  apprehend,  from  this  train  of 
reasoning  and  remark,  the  ground  of  my  claim 
that  the  people — the  great  world  of  hungry  life — 
are  the  only  competent  judges  of  art.  They  recog- 
nize, know,  and  love  the  hand  that  feeds  them — the 
hand  that  ministers  to  their  want:  and  they  are 
the  grand  court  of  final  j udgmeht  on  all  art  and  its 
authors.  No  artist  ever  won  an  immortahty  that 
was  worth  the  winning,  that  he  did  not  win  from 
the  people,  by  a ministry  through  direct  piu’pose 
to  the  hfe  of  the  people.  This  is  no  new  doctrine, 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


265 


even  if  it  be  not  commonly  accepted.  ‘‘  The  light 
, of  the  pubhc  square  will  test  its  value,”  said  Michel 
Angelo  to  the  young  sculptor  whose  work  he  was 
examining;  confessing,  master  of  masters  as  he 
was,  his  own  incompetence  to  decide  whether  it 
should  be  immortal. 

You  will  remember  that  fifteen  or  twenty  years 
i ago  two  musical  artists — players  upon  the  same  in- 
strument— visited  this  country  respectively  to 
make  a professional  tour.  One  was  the  pet  of  the 
musical  critics:  and  he  was  undoubtedly  more 
thoroughly  versed  in  the  technicahties  and  intri- 
cacies of  his  art,  and  possessed  more  of  manual  facil- 
ity, than  his  rival.  We  were  told  that  he  was  true 
to  his  art — truer  by  far  than  his  competitor — and 
that  the  latter  was  a charlatan  and  a trickster. 
Well,  this  charlatan  breathed  out  upon  the  people 
the  life  that  w^as  in  him — ^the  very  pathos  and  pas- 
sion of  his  soul;  and  the  people  drank  it,  and  were 
blest.  One  of  these  artists,  was  a man  of  talent  and 
education,  the  other,  a man  of  genius  and  inspira- 
tion. Yieux  Temps  returned  across  the  Atlantic, 
chagrined  and  disgusted;  Ole  Bull  remained  to 
win  the  admiration  and  the  plaudits  of  a conti- 
nent. 

Every  year  or  two  the  musical  critics  are  exer- 
cised with  ecstasy  by  the  miraculous  performances 
— the  runs  and  roulades,  the  trills  and  tricks — of 
some  imported  contralto  or  soprano,  and  bemoan 
the  low  state  of  art  that  hinders  them  from  win- 
ning attention  to  that  which  they  miscall  art;  but 


266 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


when  a pure  and  generous  life,  a noble  woman- 
hood, a sou  of  strength  and  sweetness — gushing 
with  life  in  every  exj^ression,  and  sympathetic 
with  life  in  every  fibre — breathes  through  the 
lips  of  Jenny  Lind,  the  people  drink  the  nec- 
tar with  greedy  lips,  till  it  overflows  in  tears.  The 
immortahty  of  Grecian  art  sprang  from  its  truth  to 
the  highest  life  of  its  time,  and  of  its  ministry  to 
that  life.  The  Christian  art  of  later  centuries  ad- 
dressed also  the  highest  life  that  lived,  and  the 
highest  department  of  that  life.  The  entire  artist- 
life  of  Baphael  was  devoted  to  feeding  the  highest 
religious  life  of  his  country  and  his  age.  Hardly 
a picture  of  this  master  remains  that  was  not  bom 
of  religious  inspiration,  and  intended  to  reproduce 
in  the  beholder  the  exaltation  out  of  which  it  pro- 
ceeded. Baphael  is  immortal.  The  people  did 
not  ask  then,  and  they  do  not  ask  now,  what  were 
the  characteristics  of  his  school — whether  this  or 
that  master  modified  the  development  of  his  genius 
— ^whether  he  learned  this  thing  of  one  and  that 
thing  of  another.  They  know  that  he  gave  his 
most  exalted  life  to  them  embodied  in  forms  of  art; 
that  those  forms  entered  into  their  hfe,  elevating 
their  conceptions  and  exalting  their  sensibilities, 
and  that  they  have  received  a blessing. 

For  the  illustration  of  my  position,  I have  dwelt 
thus  far  among  the  confines,  the  suburbs,  of  art. 
I have  spoken  only  of  that  which  resides  in  sound 
and  in  form  and  color.  Music  may  be  divine,  but 
ita  living  is  its  dying.  It  gushes,  and  is  drunk  up 


ABT  AND  LIFK 


267 


by  the  thirsty  silences.  It  bursts  in  blooming 
harmony,  and  the  whole  flower  is  at  once  exhaled. 
The  great  song  that  entranced  the  ears  of  the  sim- 
ple shepherds  of  Bethlehem  went  back  into  heaven 
with  the  vocal  host.  The  literal  sentence  was 
saved,  but  the  pearls  that  glorified  the  sacred  string 
were  returned  to  their  casket.  All  that  is  material 
perishes.  • Pigments  fade,  canvas  decays,  and  mar- 
ble crumbles.  The  long  path  of  art  is  strewn  with 
ruins.  Thus  the  great  aggregate  of  life  that  in  the 
ages  gone  has  sought  embodiment  in  form  and 
color  will  waste  away,  age  after  age,  until  only 
hollow  names  remain,  to  be  read  as  we  read  the 
names  on  gravestones  set  over  life  and  beauty 
turned  to  dust.  It  is  only  words  that  live,  immor- 
tal representatives  of  everything  evolved  by  the 
processes  of  thought,  the  experiences  of  life,  and 
the  operations  of  the  imagination.  The  temple  of 
art  is  built  of  words.  Painting  and  sculpture  and 
music  are  but  the  blazon  of  its  windows,  borrow- 
ing all  their  significance  from  the  light,  and  sug- 
gestive only  of  the  temple’s  uses. 

To  me,  w^ords  are  a mystery  and  a marvel. 
There  is  no  point  where  man  so  nearly  touches 
God  as  in  creation  by  words.  There  is  no  point 
w^here  art  so  nearly  touches  nature  as  when  it  ap- 
pears in  the  form  of  words.  What  are  these  words? 
They  are  the  very  nothing  out  of  which  God  spoke 
creation  into  being.  “Let  there  be  light,”  said 
' the  Creator;  and  there  was  fight.  It  came  of  those 
words;  and  it  comes  of  ours  as  well.  He  spoke  to 


268 


ARI  AND  LIFK 


perception;  we  speak  to  imagination.  We  pro- 
nounce the  word  light,  and  the  imagination  sees 
the  atmosphere  flooded  with  sunshine.  We  pro- 
nounce the  word  night,  and  straight  the  sky  is 
studded  with  stars.  Words  paint  the  flower  be- 
yond the  faculty  and  facility  of  the  pencil.  Words 
weave  and  wind  the  very  harmonies  of  heaven. 
There  is  nothing  that  man  knows,  there  *is  nothing 
that  the  heart  has  felt,  there  is  nothing  the  imagi- 
nation can  conceive,  that  may  not,  and  does 
not,  find  in  words  its  highest  revelation.  Ah!  this 
is  impalpable,  invisible,  plastic  nihility — this  form- 
less mother  of  forms — this  vitalized  nothingness — 
this  matrix  of  all  being — words!  When  the  artist 
works  with  these,  he  works  with  that  by  which 
Gcd  made  the  universe;  and  there  is  no  genuine 
embodiment  of  the  highest  fife  of  man  which 
passes  so  directly  into  the  life  of  other  men  as  that 
which  takes  the  form  of  words.  The  pencil  and 
tlie  chisel  are  but  clumsy  things  by  the  side  of  the 
pen — the  choicest  and  noblest  of  all  instruments 
ever  placed  in  human  fingers. 

In  sculpture  and  picture,  man  speaks  to  man  by 
signs,  to  which  the  receiver  of  the  utterance  is  un- 
accustomed. Into  those  channels  of  expression 
the  popular  fife  does  not  flow;  but  words  are  fa- 
miliar— the  dies  in  which  all  daily  life  and  thought 
are  fashioned.  Through  words,  hfe  flows  freely 
and  exactly  into  life.  Picture  and  sculpture  are 
fixed  and  formal,  and  strive  to  make  us  understand 
them  by  attitude  and  expressive  dumb-show. 


ABT  AND  LIFE. 


2C9 


Words  are  vocal  and  vital,  active  and  flexible,  and 
enter  the  door  of  our  pei’ception  whether  we  will 
or  no.  Words,  in  short,  are  not  only  the  highest 
representatives  of  thought  and  life,  but  they  are 
the  representatives,  the  sources,  the  expounders, 
and  the  preservers  of  all  that  is  highest  in  picture 
and  sculpture. 

I approach  this  field  of  art  with  profound  inter- 
est, for  the  first  book  upon  which  I lay  my  hand  is 
the  Bible.  In  this  book  God  condescends  to  speak 
to  men  in  words.  Even  He  must  come  to  this. 
The  burning  stars,  the  everlasting  hills,  the  infinite 
sea,  forests  and  streams  and  flowers — all  His  subhmo 
sculpture,  and  infinitely  varied  picture,  even  when 
informed  with  vitahty  and  instinct  with  action — 
are  not  sufficient  for  His  purpose,  not  sufficient  for 
His  self-expression,  and  not  sufficient  for  our  satis- 
faction. He  comes  to  convey  to  us  something 
more  of  His  life  than  He  can  convey  through  na- 
ture. He  comes  to  us  with  a mission.  Now,  I 
ask,  will  He  be  simply  didactic,  or  will  He  convey 
His  life  to  us  through  forms  of  art?  If  we  ex- 
amine the  volume  critically,  we  shall  find  that  He 
embodies  all  His  highest  truth  in  these  forms. 
The  life  He  would  convey  is  moulded  into  the 
form  of  human  life,  endowed  with  the  spirit  and 
the  motives  of  humanity,  and  then  passed  over  to 
us.  He  does  not  say  in  two  words,  ‘‘be  patient,” 
but  He  builds  the  trial  and  triumph  of  Job  into  an 
exquisite  form  of  art;  and  Euth  inculcates  the  les- 
son of  filial  love  and  duty  in  the  sweetest  pastoral 


270 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


that  lives  in  language.  He  does  not  read  to  us 
dry  lessons  of  morality,  but  He  gives  those  lessons 
vitality  in  parables,  in  which  “a  certain  man  ” is 
made  to  live  what  He  would  have  us  learn.  The 
sweet  singer  of  Israel  pours  out  his  hfe  to  us  in 
Psalms — divine  life  breathed  into  him,  and  breathed 
through  him — and  we  drink  in  that  life  to  feed  the 
springs  of  our  devotion.  On  the  wings  of  exalta- 
tion and  adoration  furnished  by  the  art  of  the 
Psalms,  the  praise  and  the  thanksgiving  of  Christ- 
endom rise  to  heaven. 

I ask  myself,  why  this  huge  volume  of  poems 
and  allegories,  and  songs  and  narratives,  and  par- 
ables and  pastorals?  Why  this  waste  of  type  and 
paper?  Why  all  this  wonderfully  varied  machinery 
for  the  conveyance  of  a definite  number  of  simple 
and  subhme  truths?  Why  this  exhibition  of  the 
same  truths  in  wonderfully  varied  forms?  I find 
the  answer,  and  I find  it  only,  in  my  theory  of  the 
mission  of  art;  and  I claim  the  Bible  as  a divine 
recognition  of  the  fact  that  art  is  the  ordained  vehi- 
cle for  the  conveyance  of  that  which  is  divine  in  the 
life  of  man  to  the  life  of  men. 

True  art  is  that  which  is  true  in  life,  organized 
in  the  idea,  in  its  relations  to  human  motives — ab- 
stract truth,  assimilated  to  life,  and  thus  made 
food  for  life.  Abstract  truth  is  no  better  fitted  to 
feed  the  soul’s  life  than  the  abstract  elements' which 
enter  into  the  composition  of  the  body  aro  fitted 
to  feed  the  bodily  life.  Chemistry  will  tell  mo  all 
the  elements  contained  in  the  food  I eat  but  if  I 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


271 


^ke  my  food  at  the  hand  of  chemistry,  I shall  die. 
V'itahty  must  organize  these  elements,  and  then 
ny  vitahty  will  feed  upon  them.  So,  if  my  soul 
i;ry  to  live  on  abstract  truth,  it  wiU  starve.  I can- 
lot  take  my  spiritual  food  from  the  hand  of  spir- 
fcual  chemistry.  It  must  be  organized  for  me  by  a 
vdtal  process — it  must  be  lived  in  fact  or  in  idea — 
before  it  can  come  into  healthful  relation  to  my 
spiritual  vitahty,  I cannot  take  even  God  Himself 
until  He  is  manifested  to  me  in  human  life. 

Thus,  this  book  of  books  is  a dej)ository  of  the 
highest  truth,  aU  assimilated  to  hfe  by  the  proces- 
ses of  art.  Out  of  this  exhaustless  magazine  of  all 
that  is  divine  in  human  hfe  do  the  nations  of 
Christendom  draw  their  food.  Forth  from  this 
has  sprung  our  civihzation.  Out  of  this  germinal 
mass  have  grown  and  will  grow  all  good  institu- 
tions; and  by  it  is  human  hfe  to  be  wholly  regen- 
erated. We  find  in  this  book  that  v/hen  God 
works  in  the  field  of  art.  He  works  precisely  as  He 
does  in  that  of  nature — with  direct  reference  to  hfe. 
He  never  makes  art  an  end  of  itself.  As  in  nature, 
so  in  revelation,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  beauty 
for  beauty’s  sake;  all  beauty  is  for  man’s  sake. 
Every  form  of  art  contained  in  the  Bible  is  but  a 
vehicle  for  the  conveyance  of  divine  humanity  to 
a hfe  that  needs  it. 

But  we  leave  the  Bible,  and  take  up  a humbler 
volume — a volume  which  I suppose  the  majonty  of 
literary  men  would  conspire  to  place  upon  the  low- 
est shelf  of  art,  and  open  the  pages  of  The  Pil- 


272 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


grim’s  Progress.  From  my  point  of  vision,  yon 
will  see  that  as  a work  of  art  this  book  must  be  re- 
garded as  one  of  the  most  remarkable  ever  written 
by  mortal  pen.  More  truly  than  any  uninspired 
book  with  which  I am  acquainted  does  it  spring 
out  of  life,  and  answer  the  end  of  art — ^passing  into 
other  life.  An  illiterate  tinker  sits  in  Bedford  jail, 
and  embodies  in  an  allegory  bis  own  rehgious  life. 
In  this  allegory  he  gives  his  highest  seK-expression 
— organizes  the  truth  that  he  has  lived,  for  the 
nourishment  of  other  life.  It  will  be  seen  that  the 
origin  of  the  work  is  strictly  legitimate,  and  that 
the  intent  is,  beyond  question,  beneficent.  What 
has  been  its  effect?  It  has  been  the  grateful  food 
of  millions.  It  has  been  translated  into  a multi- 
tude of  languages,  and  will  live  immortally  in  the 
heart  and  life  of  Christendom.  Yet  Bunyan  did 
not  know  what  artistic  sense  meant.  He  was  inno- 
cent of  all  knov>^ledge  of  classical  models;  but  he 
had  something  in  him,  knew  y>^hat  he  wanted  to  do 
with  it,  invented  the  best  possible  way  of  doing  it, 
and  did  it.  Many  of  the  greatest  minds,  though 
entangled  by  false  theories  of  art,  have  not  failed 
to  recognize  the  angel  in  his  pilgrim  form,  and 
have  rendered  him  just  tribute.  When  Southey 
and  Cowper,  Badcliffe  and  Franklin,  Coleridge  and 
Johnson,  Jamieson  and  Macaulay,  bring  their  offer- 
ings to  such  a shrine,  the  author  may  well  spare 
the  worship  of  smaller  minds.  I grant  that,  as  a 
work  of  art,  this  great  vehicle  of  Bunyan’s  life  is 


ART  AND  LIFE, 


273 


roughly  finished,  but  that  may  well  be  rough  which 
comes  from  the  hand  of  a giant. 

We  now  come  to  the  consideration  of  an  ac- 
knowledged master — crowned  by  the  critics  and 
the  people  alike  as  the  world’s  master.  What  is 
Shakspere’s  secret?  What  was  the  material  with 
which  he  wrought?  Life — always  life.  In  some, 
perhaps  many,  respects,  he  is  indeed  the  world’s 
master.  More  than  any  other  man  has  he  drunk 
in,  assimilated  and  organized  in  forms  of  art  the 
life  of  the  world.  The  Idng  and  the  courtier,  the 
prince  and  the  peasant,  the  fop  and  the  fool;  man- 
hood and  womanhood  pure  and  simple  and  beauti- 
ful— manhood  and  womanhood  black  with  impur- 
ity, passion,  and  craft;  every  form  of  life  that  came 
within  the  range  of  his  far-sweeping  vision — he  ap- 
propriated to  his  uses.  These  he  associated  and 
informed  with  life  and  motive;  and  then  he  em- 
bodied in  language  the  dramas  which  their  hfe 
played  in  his  Tvonderful  brain.  This  is  the  life  he 
has  transmitted  to  us;  and  in  it,  and  in  it  alone, 
resides  his  power  over  us.  Bunyan  and  Shakspere 
are  very  different:  yet  both  are  masters.  Shak- 
spere was  a highly  vitahzed  medium  through 
which  the  life  of  humanity  passed  into  artistic  or- 
ganization for  the  use  of  other  life:  Bunyan  was  a 
medium  liardly  less  vitalized,  through  which  the 
divine  life  passed  into  form  for  the  nourishment  of 
the  same  life. 

Though  the  field  is  tempting,  the  lack  of  time 


274 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


forbids  the  further  illustration  of  this  point.  I 
cannot  leave  it,  however,  without  recalling  for  a 
moment  my  proposition  that  the  people  are  the 
true  judges  of  art,  and  that  all  immortality  worth 
the  winning  must  be  won  from  the  people.  All 
the  critics  in  the  world  cannot  kill  the  Bible.  All 
that  philosophy  and  science  and  learning  can  do  to 
effect  this  object  has  been  done;  but  it  is  stronger 
to-day  than  ever  before,  because  the  people  find  a 
life  in  it  which  they  need,  and  which  they  can  find 
no-where  else.  I speak  of  the  book  now  simply  as 
a collection  of  works  of  art,  without  reference  to  its 
origin.  Bunyan  was  immortal  long  before  the 
critics  of  art  found  it  out.  Shakspere  would  have 
been  forgotten  centuries  ago  if  he  had  not  had  a 
ministry  for  the  people.  When  the  people  will  not 
come  to  the  support  of  the  critics — when  they  fail 
to  find  anything  in  a work  of  art  which  ministers 
to  their  growth  and  wealth — that  work,  in  my 
judgment,  is  competently  condemned.  It  answers 
no  purpose  in  the  earth.  It  has  no  apology  for  ex- 
istence. A fictitious  halo  of  glory  may  be  throwm 
around  it,  and  its  author’s  name  may  descend  to 
posterity  in  books,  and  a feeble  and  a foolish  dilet- 
tanti may  make  it  the  theme  of  encomium;  but  it 
is  a dead  thing,  which  must  ultimately  descend  to  a 
burial  too  profound  for  resurrection. 

Although  I have  recognized  with  sufficient  direct- 
ness the  popular  want  with  relation  to  the  ministiy 
of  art,  I have  failed  to  consider  that  want  distinctly 
in  the  light  of  a demand  which  has  a place  in  the 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


275 


basis  of  my  theory.  I have  stated,  as  a general 
fact,  that  no  man  Tvins  immortality  in  art  save  by 
ministering  to  the  life  of  the  people:  but  I have 
not  stated  that  the  demand  for  hfe  at  the  hand  of 
the  artist  helps  to  fix — nay,  independently  of  every- 
thing else,  fixes — the  province,  and  defines  the 
mission  of  art.  In  the  whole  range  of  nature, 
every  want  has  placed  over  against  it  an  appropri- 
ate source  of  satisfaction.  If  there  be  a well  of 
water  in  the  desert,  and  a crowd  of  thirsty  Arabs 
around  it,  the  office  of  that  well  is  defined  by  that 
thirst.  So  if  a town  need  bread,  and  there  be  only 
one  man  who  can  bake  it,  that  man’s  province  and 
mission  are  as  well  defined  by  that  want,  as  by  the 
power  and  skill  he  has  within  him.  If  such  a man 
should  say,  “I  have  nothing  to  do  with  this  want 
— I did  not  make  it;  I am  to  be  true  to  the  highest 
faculties  I possess,  and  the  glory  of  my  trade;  I 
will  make  patty-cakes  and  pastry:  if  the  people  wiU 
not  buy  these,  the  worse  for  them;  as  for  minister- 
ing to  this  clamor  of  popular  want,  I will  do  no 
such  thing  ” — I say  that  if  such  a man  should  say 
this,  we  should  call  him  a fool  or  a madman — ^pos- 
sibly worse  names  than  these. 

Now,  in  the  consideration  of  this  subject,  I see 
before  me  two  classes  of  men.  One  is  compara- 
tively small,  but  it  is  full  of  \utality,  and  rich  with 
life.  The  other  is  large,  and  poor  in  these  ele- 
ments. The  artists  are  opulent;  the  peojDle  are  in 
poverty,  and  in  need  of  the  overflowing  life  which 
the  artists  possess.  I know  that  there  is  no  way 


276 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


for  the  administration  of  this  life  save  through 
forms  of  art.  “ Give  us  of  your  wealth/’  say  the 
people;  ‘‘give  it  to  us  in  a vehicle  by  means  of 
which  we  may  be  enabled  to  appropriate  the  whole 
of  it,  for  we  are  poor,  and  in  need  of  that  of  which 
you  possess  an  abundance.”  When  I see  and  hear 
this,  and  learn  that  this  want  can  only  be  supplied 
by  the  artist,  I am  left  in  no  doubt  touching  the 
character  of  his  mission,  and  the  direction  of  his 
duty. 

Mark  how  this  appetite  for  life  is  pronounced— 
.this  need  of  life  declared.  Mark  how  the  news- 
paper has  become  the  universal  fireside  companion 
— how  its  morning  visit  is  as  necessary  for  the  satis- 
faction of  a daily  arising  want,  as  the  coffee  and 
the  rolls  of  the  breakfast-table;  and  mark,  too, 
how  everything — marriages,  deaths,  and  all — ^is 
read  before  the  dry  and  didactic  leader.  Mark  how 
the  personalities  of  the  press — ^kind  or  otherwise — 
are  first  devoured  in  the  greedy  appetite  to  get  at 
the  life  of  others.  We  may  deplore  this  devotion 
to  the  newspaper,  but  it  can  neither  be  checked, 
nor  diverted,  until  a better  life  can  be  drunk  in 
from  other  sources.  The  newspaper  is  only  fasci- 
nating and  absorbing  because  it  feeds  better  than 
the  popularly  available  forms  of  art  this  demand 
for  life. 

Mark,  too,  the  interest  of  old  and  wise  men  in 
the  books  written  for  children — books,  by  the  way, 
the  truest  to  the  mission  of  art  of  any  to  be  found 
in  our  literatiure.  I do  but  give  voice  to  the  com- 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


277 


mon  exioerience  in  the  assertion  that  a first-class 
juvenile  is  as  interesting  and  as  instructive  to  the 
mature  mind  as  to  the  immature.  The  truths 
elucidated  may  be  familiar — even  trite;  but  the 
hfe  in  which  they  are  cast  ministers  to  this  ever- 
open  want,  and  confers  a fresh  vitality  upon  the 
truths  themselves. 

Rising  into  a higher  range  of  literary  art,  we 
find  almost  the  whole  world  engaged  in  novel-read- 
ing. Many  of  the  wise  and  good  shake  their  heads 
over  it.  Careful  and  conscientious  parents  place 
fiction  under  ban  in  their  households.  The  pulpit 
fulminates  against  it,  even  if  the  church  fail  in 
terms  to  proscribe  it.  Signal  instances  of  its  sad 
effects  upon  the  mind  and  the  morals  are  portrayed 
in  the  issues  of  the  Tract  Society,  but  still  the  read- 
ing go  on;  and  from  one  to  one  hundred  editions 
of  every  work  find  buyers  and  readers.  If  the 
novel  is  not  read  openly,  it  is  read  in  secret;  if  not 
by  sun-light,  by  gas-light;  if  not  in  the  house,  or 
under  genial  sanction,  then  in  the  barn,  or  under  a 
green  tree.  Why  all  this  swallowing  of  so  much 
that  is  trash?  Why  this  almost  indiscriminate  de- 
votion to  worth  and  worthlessness?  Is  this  all  from 
a debased  or  a morbid  appetite?  By  no  means. 
You  wiU  find  the  high  and  the  low  all  agreed  upon 
a work  of  fiction  from  the  pen  of  genuine  genius, 
true  to  its  mission.  Of  living,  active  writers,  Mr. 
Dickens  and  Mrs.  Stowe  will  have  the  most  conve- 
nient shelf  of  the  library  of  him  who  reads  “ The 
Devil’s  Darning  Needle — a Tale  of  Love,  Madness, 


278 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


and  Suicide,”  as  well  as  that  of  the  man  of  high 
and  chastened  tastes. 

Life!  Life!  This  is  the  cry  of  the  multitude — 
life,  true  and  chaste  and  beautiful — ^life  that  shall 
nourish  and  enrich  us,  if  we  can  get  it,  but  hfe  of 
some  kind — life  of  any  kind — rather  than  none. 
This  great  world  of  common  life,  bound  to  the 
work-bench,  the  farm,  the  counting-room,  the  four 
walls  that  inclose  the  domestic  circle,  the  factory, 
the  ceaseless  routine  of  daily  toil  and  care  in  every 
sphere,  cries  for  the  wealth  of  other  life.  It  cannot 
go  out,  and  gather  life;  so  it  eagerly  grasps  that 
which  comes  to  it.  It  cannot  mix  in  multitudes, 
and  travel,  and  enter  into  varied  society,  so  it  must 
buy  multitudes,  and  buy  travel,  and  buy  society,  in 
books — so  art  must  bring  them  into  communion 
with  life.  This  cry  for  life  cannot  be  stilled.  It 
can  only  be  hushed  by  satisfaction.  History,  nar- 
rative, biography — all  these — are  laid  under  tribute 
in  accordance  with  individual  tastes  for  the  supply 
of  this  want. 

If  you  will  go  up  and  down  this  land,  and,  when 
you  find  him,  i^lace  your  hand  upon  the  shoulder 
of  the  preacher  who  draws  the  largest  audience, 
has  power  over  the  greatest  number  of  minds,  and 
moulds  and  sways  public  sentiment  more  than  any 
other,  you  will  find  him  to  be  one  who  exhibits  his 
truth  organized  in  the  form,  and  instinct  with  the 
breath,  of  life.  You  will  not  find  him  the  ex- 
pounder and  the  champion  of  a creed — the  retailer 
of  second-hand  dogmas,  and  ready-made  rules  and 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


279 


formulas,  but  tlie  promulgator  of  a life — a life 
which  he  has  in  him,  fed  by  every  fountain  that 
God  and  humanity  open  to  him. 

So  I say  that  in  the  want  of  the  world,  no  less 
than  in  the  vital  wealth  of  the  artist — in  the  want 
of  the  world,  no  less  than  in  the  economy  of  God 
in  creation  and  revelation — is  the  true  mission  of 
art  defined.  Never,  until  this  mission  shall  be 
comprehended  and  practically  entered  upon,  will 
art  rise  to  be  the  power  in  the  earth  that  it  ought 
to  be,  and  is  destined  to  be.  We  mourn  over  the 
decadence  of  art  in  its  Italian  home.  We  lament 
the  insignificant  position  that  it  has  achieved  in 
this  country.  We  cross  the  seas,  or  go  back  to  a 
dead  literature,  to  gather  from  the  old  masters 
their  secret.  We  strive  to  filch  from  a burnt-out 
fife  the  light  and  inspiration  which  may  only  be  in- 
voked from  a living  present  and  a possible  future. 
We  look  to  decayed  nationalities  and  efiete  civiliza- 
tions for  ideals  and  ideas  upon  which  those  very 
nationalities  and  civilizations  have  starved.  We 
refer  to  the  old  models  of  thought  and  art  with 
slavish  deference  to  classic  authority.  We  strive 
to  cast  the  burning  life,  molten  in  Christian  love, 
of  this  latter  day  of  grace,  into  the  old  moulds  of 
pagan  art  and  1-kerature— outgrown,  outlived,  and 
outlawed.  We  bow  to  the  life  behind  us,  and  not 
to  that  within  us  and  before  us.  We  stand  upon 
the  mountain-tops  of  hfe,  and  peer  down  into  the 
valleys  for  light. 

Pray  Heaven  we  may  have  no  art  in  this  country, 


280 


ART  AND  LIFE, 


until  we  can  learn  to  be  as  true  to  the  life  within 
us  and  Avithout  us  as  those  whom  we  have  learned 
to  call  masters  were  true  to  their  OAvn  life  and  that 
of  their  age!  We  have  the  same  foundation  t^ 
build  upon  that  they  had.  We  have  a hundred- 
fold richer  materials  than  they  had.  Our  civiliza- 
tion and  institutions  are  purer  and  higher  than 
theirs.  Into  all  our  life  and  thought  have  been  in- 
fused the  fertilizing  influences  of  Olnistianity;  and 
what  shall  prevent  an  unprecedented  development 
of  art  save  blind  obedience  to  artificial  standards, 
reared  among  the  ancient  schools,  standing  half 
Avay  between  us  and  chaos,  rather  than  half  way 
between  us  and  the  millennium? 

I have  repeatedly  said  that,  save  as  art  ministers 
directly  to  the  life  of  the  people,  by  definite  pur- 
pose, it  is  illegitimate.  I have  nowhere  said, 
directly,  that  the  beautiful  in  art  has  a mission  to 
life  and  a ministry  for  it;  and  this  I wish  to  say 
here.  I do  not  propose  to  speculate  upon  the  na- 
ture of  the  beautiful,  presuming  that  your  minds 
are  already  sufficiently  confused  on  that  subject. 
Driving  after  practical  truth,  I go  back  to  my  first 
facts — to  God  and  nature — to  find  the  legitimate 
mission  of  beauty.  Only  in  subordinate  depart- 
ments of  nature  do  I find  beauty  a leading  element, 
or  a principal  purpose.  In  a pansy,  a daisy,  and  a 
rose,  as  in  a wide  sisterhood  of  flowers,  I find  no 
object  consulted  higher  than  the  pleasure  of  vision, 
or  the  excitement  into  activity  of  the  sense  of  the 
beautiful;  and  when  I find  millions  drinking  in 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


281 


tliis  beauty  with  exquisite  pleasure,  and  see  that  it 
has  a refining  and  harmonizing  power  upon  their 
life,  I conclude  that  beauty  in  nature,  independ- 
ently of  all  other  elements  and  properties,  has  a 
mission  from  God  to  the  life  of  men — that  through 
it  sometliing  of  God’s  hfe  passes  into  man’s  life. 

I look  upon  a w'heat-fieid,  sjoread  like  a sheet  of 
gold  upon  the  hill-side,  and  as  the  shadows  of  the 
clouds  chase  each  other  over  it,  and  it  bends,  and 
swells  in  soft  undulations,  to  the  will  of  the  wan- 
dering wind,  I say  and  feel  that  it  is  very  beautiful. 
It  moves  me  more  than  the  rose  that  I hold  in  my 
hand:  but  I see  at  once  that  the  beauty  of  the 
wheat-field  is  a subordinate  element — that  it  is  no 
more,  in  fact,  than  the  gloiy,  the  elBlorescence,  of 
the  element  of  fitness.  It  is  eminently  fit  that  that 
sheeted  aggregation  of  plants  which  have  sucked 
up  from  the  soil,  and,  by  vital  elaboration,  have 
prepared  for  my  hand  that  which  feeds  my  hfe, 
should  be  beautiful.  The  beautiful  is  a proper 
dress  for  that  to  appear  in  which  is  the  very  staff  of 
my  life. 

I look  out  upon  the  ocean  when  the  sun  is  bright 
and  the  wind  is  still;  when  spectral  spars  and  sails 
flit  along  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  and  the  sea-bii’ds 
toss  the  sunshine  from  their  wings  in  fiakes  of  sil- 
ver, and  the  surf  gently  kneels  at  the  feet  of  the 
headland  where  I stand,  and  bathes  them  with  its 
t«ars,  and  wipes  them  with  its  flowing  ham,  and  I 
say  that  it  is  all  very  beautiful:  but  this  beauty  is 
not  what  the  ocean  was  made  for.  It  is  only  the 


282 


ART  AKD  LIFE. 


fitting  garb  of  the  infinite  storehouse  of  waters 
from  whence  arise  the  clouds  that  spread  the 
heavens  with  glory,  and  rejoice  the  earth  with 
showers.  It  is  only  the  proper  physiognomy  of 
the  great  and  wide  sea,  which  defines  nationahties 
and  races;  upon  whose  bosom  buoyant  Commerce 
weaves  the  meshes  of  human  interest,  that  bind 
cHme  to  clime,  and  unite  universal  man  in  univer- 
sal brotherhood. 

With  the  lesson  which  these  my  first  facts  teach 
me,  I come  back  to  art;  and  if  this  be  a legitimate 
lesson,  drawn  from  the  only  legitimate  source,  I 
am  prepared  to  tell  exactly  what  the  mission  of 
beauty  in  art  is.  In  art,  as  in  nature,  beauty  has  a 
subordinate  mission.  If  art  be  simply  the  medium 
by  which  life  is  transported  from  those  who  are 
rich  in  gift  and  grace  and  goodness  to  those  who 
are  not  equally  rich,  or  not  rich  in  identical  wealth, 
the  simple  question  to  be  settled,  is,  whether 
beauty  be  the  highest  evolution  of  life  on  one  side, 
and  the  greatest  need  of  life  upon  the  other.  I as- 
sume that  there  can  be  but  one  answer  to  this 
question,  and  that  beauty  never  is,  and  never  can 
be,  more  than  the  shell  of  the  highest  art — the  ap- 
propriate dress  of  vital  values.  I find  beauty  as 
the  supreme  end  of  art  justified  in  nature,  but  only 
in  miniature  forms  and  hmited  instances.  Always, 
as  nature  rises  toward  high  ends  and  imj)ortant  is- 
sues, beauty  ceases  to  be  an  element,  and  takes  the 
subordinate  position  of  a quality  or  property,  with 
relations  to  that  which  is  essential. 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


283 


Now  you  will  bear  me  witness  that  the  slavery 
of  art  to  beauty  is  universal.  The  aim  of  nine- 
tenths,  at  the  least,  of  all  the  forms  of  art  that  have 
been  uttered  in  the  departments  of  picture,  sculp- 
ture, and  poetry,  has  been  ministry  to  the  sense  of 
the  beautiful.  The  voice  of  universal  art  is — 
beauty  first  and  at  any  sacrifice;  beauty  exclusively 
if  necessaiy.  Beauty  has  been  compelled  to  come 
in.  If  the  palaces  of  thought  would  not  furnish  it, 
then  the  highways  and  hedges  have  been  laid 
under  compulsory  tribute,  while  the  highest  end 
of  art  has  been  forced  into  the  lowest  seat,  or 
thrust  out  of  the  house  for  lack  of  a becoming  gar- 
ment. 

Thus  has  art  been  cheated  out  of  its  sinews  and 
its  soul.  Thus  has  it  failed,  where  it  has  flourished 
most  luxuriantly,  to  preserve  the  life  of  nations 
from  decay.  Thus  are  we,  in  this  country,  drink- 
ing the  breath  and  toying  with  the  curls  of  beauty, 
and  all  the  while  wondering  why,  in  an  age  far  in 
advance  of  all  its  predecessors,  in  power,  activity, 
civilization,  culture,  freedom,  and  positive  good- 
ness, art  has  made  no  greater  progress.  I only 
wonder  that  it  has  a name  to  live — that  it  has  not 
utterly  starved  upon  the  husks  which  have  been  its 
food.  Thank  God  for  the  few  great  souls,  scattered 
here  and  there,  along  the  track  of  history,  that 
were  a law  unto  themselves,  and  revealed  aU  the 
fife  that  was  in  them,  in  such  forms  as  that  fife  na- 
turally assumed. 

I have  been  obliged  by  the  hmits  of  an  effort 


284 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


like  this  to  deal  in  broad  generalities,  and  these  re- 
lating entirely  to  the  highest  departments  of  art. 
I might  profitably  spend  another  hour  in  exhibit- 
ing the  bearings  of  my  theory  upon  the  range  of 
art  that  lies  below  my  theme — upon  that  which  is 
simply  imitative  and  adaptive;  but  my  pen  respects 
your  patience,  and  I will  only  add  a few  practical 
conclusions. 

My  first  conclusion  is,  that  there  is,  and  can  be, 
no  such  thing  as  a general  standard  of  art  and  crif^ 
icism,  having  relation  to  form  and  management. 
There  is  no  such  thing  in  nature.  A horse  is  made 
for  fleetness:  so  is  a swallow;  so  is  an  antelope;  so 
is  a greyhound.  An  elephant  is  made  for  strength: 
so  is  an  ox;  so  is  a Hon;  so  is  a bull-dog.  Suppose 
a critic  of  nature  should  set  up  his  standard  at  the 
side  of  the  horse,  and  insist  that  a swallow  should 
have  four  legs,  a greyhound  hoofs,  and  an  antelope 
a switch  tail.  Or  suppose  he  should  set  it  up  at 
the  side  of*  the  elephant,  and  insist  on  tusks  for  the 
ox,  a trunk  for  the  lion,  and  a greater  show  of  ivory 
on  the  part  of  the  bull-dog.  We  should  all  laugh 
at  such  a critic  as  this;  yet  a critic  Hke  this  is  just 
as  ridiculous  in  the  domain  of  art  as  in  the  domain 
of  nature.  In  nature,  we  always  find  the  form  of 
each  creature  exactly  adapted  to  the  life  that  is  in 
it:  and  both  life  and  form  are  adapted  to  their  mis- 
sion. Eveiy  creature  of  God  is  sent  into  the  world 
to  live  a certain  life,  and  do  a certain  thing,  and  is 
endowed  with  precisely  that  form  which  will  best 
enable  it  to  live  that  life,  and  do  that  thing. 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


285 


Forms,  varying  almost  infinitely,  combine  the  same 
elements.  The  greyhound  and  the  swallow  are 
fleet,  yet  one  is  borne  upon  feet  and  the  other 
upon  wings.  Therefore  I say  that  the  hfe  em- 
bodied in  a form  of  art,  and  the  mission  to  other 
life  on  which  it  is  sent,  must  always  determine  and 
define  that  form,  without  regard  to  any  arbitrary 
standard  whatsoever — without  regard  to  any  other 
form  in  the  universe  of  art.  Therefore  I say  that 
a man  who  condemns  a work  of  art  because  it  is 
not  like  something  else,  does  not  know  what  he  is 
talking  about.  Every  v/ork  of  art  has  in  its  centre 
a germinal  idea,  which  has,  in  itself,  a law  of 
development,  and  this  development  cannot  be 
cramped  or  interfered  with  in  any  way,  without 
damage  to  the  work.  I know  of  no  way  by  which 
such  a work  may  be  judged  save  the  one  I have  al- 
ready given  to  you.  Does  it  embody  the  artist’s 
idea  in  the  best  form  for  producing  the  effect  at 
which  he  aims?  That  is  the  question,  simply  and 
solely.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  schools,  pre- 
cedents, authorities,  and  general  rules  whatever. 

This  leads  me  to  another  practical  conclusion 
which  has,  in  substance,  already  been  affirmed,  viz., 
that  you  and  I,  and  everybody  who  has  brains  and 
uses  them,  are  competent  judges  of  art,  in  the 
measure  that  we  are  competent  judges  of  any- 
thing. If  I display  a picture,  or  unveil  a statue, 
or  read  a poem  or  a story,  or  exhibit  any  form  or 
creature  of  ai*t  to  you,  and  you  exjDerience  no  thrill 
of  delight,  and  drink  in  no  thought  that  feeds  in 


286 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


any  way  the  life  that  is  in  you,  so  that  you  feel  en- 
riched by  it,  I declare  that  work  of  art  to  be  com- 
petently condemned,  notwithstanding  a single  con- 
noisseur, judging  by  his  arbitrary  standard,  may 
pronounce  it  a gem.  So  far  as  you  and  I are  con- 
cerned, it  is  a failure,  and  so  far  as  we  represent 
the  world,  it  is  a failure  before  the  world.  There 
is  nothing  in  it  that  we  want:  there  is  nothing  that 
the  world  wants.  In  short,  if  there  be  nothing  in 
a work  of  art  save  that  which  is  addressed  to  the 
critical  judgment  of  a few  dawdlers  and  dilettanti, 
professional  wine-tasters  who  cluster  about  the 
spigots  of  art — experts,  who  have  no  hfe  that  W’as 
not  born  of  art,  and  no  life  out  of  art — then  that 
work  has  no  apology  for  existence,  save  the  ignor- 
ance or  the  hallucination  of  its  author. 

Another  and  a most  important  practical  conclu- 
sion, is,  that  the  life  must  be  rich  which  produces 
art,  or  it  will  have  no  wealth  to  convey  to  other 
life.  Many  young  persons — men  and  women — 
with  genius  in  them,  and  with  all  the  natural  yearn- 
ing of  genius  for  self-expression,  write  books,  and 
give  them  to  the  world  only  to  be  disappointed, 
and  to  sink  back  into  disgust  with  a pubhc  which 
is  not  capable,  as  they  think,  of  appreciating  them. 
Eut  does  not  this  stupid  pubhc  appreciate  Shak- 
spere  and  Milton?  Ah!  the  trouble  is  that  the 
public  does  appreciate  them.  They  have  nothing, 
and  can  have  nothing,  to  give  the  world,  and  why 
should  the  world  be  grateful?  They  have  only 
dealt  with  books  and  dreams.  They  have  only  be- 


ART  ASD  LIFE. 


287 


come  imperfectly  prepared  to  live,  themselves,  and 
what  have  they  to  give  to  other  life?  The  strug- 
gles, the  sorrows,  the  patient  toil,  the  collisions, 
the  ten  thousand  polishing,  chastening,  softening, 
fertilizing,  and  strengthening  influences  which . 
give  them  symmetry,  power,  knowledge  of  human 
motive,  and  sympathy  with  the  universal  human 
heart,  are  all  unexperienced.  I believe  that  the 
world,  in  the  main,  sooner  or  later,  is  just;  and 
that  it  will  weave  a crown  for  every  man  and  wo- 
man who  by  ministering  to  its  life  deserves  it.  I 
believe  that  every  man  who  gives  the  results  of  a 
rich  life  to  the  public,  in  higher  or  humbler  forms 
of  art,  wiU  be  recognized  by  the  public — that  the 
pubhc  will  turn  to  him  as  one  of  the  benign 
sources  of  its  hfe;  and  this,  not  so  much  from  a 
sense  of  justice,  as  from  unthinking  obedience  to  a 
natural  law — the  law  that  turns  the  infant’s  lips  to 
its  mother’s  bosom,  and  the  dying  saint  to  his  Ee- 
deemer’s  promises. 

And  now  for  a practical  conclusion  of  a more 
grateful  character — the  conclusion  of  this  address. 
If  I apprehend  the  signs  of  the  times,  in  their  true 
aspect,  a brighter  day  is  dawning  upon  the  world 
of  art.  In  all  departments  of  thought  and  life  we 
are  cutting  loose  from  the  old,  and  thinking  and 
doing  for  ourselves,  in  obedience  to  the  hfe  within 
us,  and  with  reference  to  the  living  realities  of  to- 
day. More  and  more  distinctly  pronounced  is  the 
call  of  the  world  for  help,  and  more  and  more  is 
that  call  respected;  for  the  world  of  life  is  begii^- 


288 


ART  AND  LIFE, 


ning  to  take  judgment  into  its  own  hands.  More 
and  more  is  the  patronage  of  art,  in  all  its  forms, 
passing  from  the  hands  of  the  church — from  the 
hands  of  royalty  and  wealth  and  power — into  the 
hands  of  the  people.  Less  and  less  is  art  the  serA- 
ant  of  the  great,  and  the  pensioned  glorifier  of 
doughty  names  and  doubtful  institutions.  Art  has 
now  to  deal  with  the  people  more  than  ever  before 
in  the  world’s  history.  The  critical  middle-men 
bless  and  curse  wuth  less  effect  than  formerly;  and 
artists  of  every  class  will  be  compelled  to  give  the 
world  what  it  needs. 

I believe  both  in  the  law  and  the  fact  of  pro- 
gress; and  as  life  is  more  opulent  now  than  ever  be- 
fore, so  a higher  art  is  possible  now  than  has  ever 
existed.  I beheve,  too,  that  the  ages  which  are  to 
follow  this  will  surpass  our  richness  of  life,  and  our 
possibilities  of  art,  as  they  will  transcend  this  and 
all  preceding  ages  in  expression.  The  art  of  to- 
day should  embody  the  highest  life  of  to-day  for 
the  use  of  to-day;  for  those  who  have  gone  before 
us  need  it  not,  and  those  who  will  come  after  us 
will  have  something  better.  The  art  that  now  hes 
in  glittering  piles  upon  the  shore  of  achievement 
was  deposited  by  waves  w’hich  started  near  the 
land,  and  found  but  insignificant  spoils  as  they 
rolled  in  and  burst  upon  the  beach.  Closely  be- 
hind us  press  other  billows,  with  mightier  bosoms 
and  loftier  crests,  surging  in  from  further  climes 
and  richer  seas,  with  contributions  that  wiU  shame 
our  unproductive  age. 


ART  AND  LIFE. 


289 


I not  only  believe  in  progress,  but  in  communion 
as  its  vital  condition.  It  is  the  condition  of  pro- 
gress in  religious  life,  and  it  is  the  condition  of 
progress  in  all  life.  Those  who  are  great,  and 
those  who  would  be  great,  must  serve.  Those 
who  would  win  for  their  names  a wreath  of  glory, 
must  expend  their  hves  in  ministry.  The  name 
that  is  above  every  name  belongs  to  Him  who  com- 
municated His  whole  life  to  the  race.  U niversal  pro- 
gress is  impossible,  save  as  the  barren  many  become 
partakers  of  the  life  of  the  fertile  few. 

Painter,  sculptor,  poet, — worker  in  words  of 
whatsoever  name — minister  of  the  life  which  is — 
prophet  of  that  which  is  to  be, — ^have  I not  shown 
to  you  your  mission?  Hungry  waiters  at  the  door 
of  art — thirsty  loiterers  at  the  fountain  of  life — 
hold  to  your  right,  and  demand  that  that  mission 
be  fulhUed! 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE. 


popular  lecture,  in  the  Northern  States  of 


America,  has  become,  in  Yankee  parlance, 
an  institution;”  and  it  has  attained  such  preva- 
lence and  power  that  it  deserves  more  attention 
and  more  resx3ect  from  those  w'ho  assume  the  con- 
trol of  the  motive  influences  of  society  than  it  has 
hitherto  received.  It  has  been  the  habit  of  certain 
literary  men  (more  x)articularly  of  such  as  do  not 
possess  a gift  for  public  speech),  and  of  certain 
literary  magazines  (managed  by  persons  of  delicate 
habits  and  weak  lungs),  to  regard  and  to  treat  the 
popular  lecture  with  a measure  of  contempt.  For 
the  last  fifteen  years  the  downfall  of  what  has  been 
popularly  denominated  ‘‘The  Lecture  System” 
has  been  confidently  predicted  by  those  who, 
granting  them  the  wisdom  which  they  assume, 
should  have  been  so  well  acquainted  with  its  nature 
and  its  adaptation  to  a permanent  popular  want  as 
to  see  that  it  must  live  and  thrive  until  something 


THE  POFULAE  LECTURE 


291 


more  practicable  can  be  contrived  to  take  its  place. 
If  anything  more  interesting,  cheaper,  simpler,  or 
more  j)ortable,  can  be  found  than  a vigorous  man, 
with  a pleasant  manner,  good  voice,  and  something 
to  say,  then  the  popular  lecture  will  certainly  be 
superseded  ; but  the  man  who  will  invent  this  sub- 
stitute is  at  present  engaged  on  a new  order  of 
architecture  and  the  problem  of  perpetual  motion, 
with,  such  i3rospect  of  full  employment  for  the  pres- 
ent as  will  give  “the  lecture  system”  sufficient 
time  to  die  gracefully.  An  institution  which  can 
maintain  its  foothold  in  the  popular  regard  through- 
out such  a war  as  has  challenged  the  interest  and 
taxed  the  energies  of  this  nation  during  the  last 
few  years  is  one  which  will  not  easily  die  ; and  the 
history  of  the  popular  lecture  proves  that,  where- 
ever  it  has  been  once  established,  it  retains  its 
place  through  all  changes  of  social  material,  and  all 
phases  of  political  and  religious  influence.  Cir- 
cumstances there  may  be  which  will  bring  inter- 
missions in  its  yearly  operations  ; but  no  instance 
can  be  found  of  its  ]3ermanent  relinquishment  by  a. 
community  which  has  once  enjoyed  its  privileges, 
and  acquired  a taste  for  the  food  and  inspiration 
which  it  furnishes. 

An  exposition  of  the  character  of  the  popular 
lecture,  the  machinery  by  which  it  is  supported, 
and  the  results  which  it  aims  at  and  accomplishes, 
cannot  be  without  interest  to  thoughtful  readers. 

What  is  the  popular  lecture  in  America  ? It  will 
not  help  us  in  this  inquest  to  refer  to  a dictionary  ; 


292 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE 


for  it  is  not  necessary  that  the  performance  which 
Americans  call  a lecture  should  be  an  instructive 
discourse  at  all.  A lecture  before  the  Young  Men’s 
Associations  and  lecture  organizations  of  the  coun- 
ry  is  any  characteristic  utterance  of  any  man  who 
speaks  in  their  employment.  The  word  “lecture” 
covers  generally  and  generically  all  the  orations, 
declamations,  dissertations,  exhortations,  recita- 
tions, humorous  extravaganzas,  narratives  of  travel, 
harangues,  sermons,  semi-sermons,  demi-semi-ser- 
mons,  and  lectures  projoer,  which  can  be  crowded 
into  what  is  called  “ a course,”  but  which  might 
be  more  properly  called  a bundle,  the  bundle  de- 
pending for  its  size  upon  the  depth  of  the  mana- 
gerial purse.  Ten  or  twelve  lectures  are  the  usual 
number,  although  in  some  of  the  larger  cities,  be- 
ginning early  in  “the  lecture  season,”  and  ending 
late,  the  number  given  may  reach  twenty. 

The  machinery  for  the  management  and  support 
of  these  lectures  is  as  simple  as  possible,  the  lec- 
tures themselves  having  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
There  are  library  associations  or  lyceum  associa- 
tions, composed  principally  of  young  men,  in  all 
the  cities  and  large  villages,  which  institute  and 
manage  courses  of  lectures  every  winter,  for  the 
double  purpose  of  interesting  and  instructing  the 
public  and  replenishing  their  treasury.  The  latter 
object,  it  must  be  confessed,  occupies  the  principal 
place,  although,  as  it  depends  for  its  attainment  on 
the  success  of  the  former,  the  public  is  as  well 
served  as  if  its  entertainment  were  alone  consulted. 


THE  FOPULAIi  LECTURE. 


293 


In  the  smaller  towns  there  are  usually  temporary 
associations,  organized  for  the  simple  purpose 
obtaining  lectures  and  managing  the  business  u\ 
cident  to  a course.  Not  unfrequently,  ten,  twenty, 
or  thirty  men  pledge  themselves  to  inaKe  up  an> 
deficiency  there  may  be  in  the  funds  required  for 
the  season’s  entertainments,  and  place  the  manage- 
ment in  the  hands  of  a committee.  Sometimes  two 
or  three  persons  call  themselves  a lecture-commit- 
tee, and  employ  lecturers,  themselves  risking  the 
possible  loss,  and  dividing  among  themselves  any 
profits  which  their  course  may  produce.  The  op- 
position or  independent  courses  in  the  larger  cities 
are  often  instituted  by  such  organizations, — some- 
times, indeed,  by  a single  person,  who  has  a natu- 
ral turn  for  this  sort  of  enterprise.  The  invitations 
to  lecturers  are  usually  sent  out  months  in  advance, 
though  very  few  courses  are  definitely  provided  for 
and  arranged  before  the  first  of  November.  The 
fees  of  lecturers  range  from  fifty  to  a hundred  dol- 
lars. A few  uniformly  command  the  latter  sum, 
and  lecture-committees  find  it  for  their  interest  to 
employ  them.  It  is  to  be  presumed  that  the  uni- 
versal rise  of  prices  will  change  these  figures  some- 
what. 

The  popular  lecture  is  the  most  purely  demo- 
. ratio  of  all  our  democratic  institutions.  The  peo- 
ple hear  a second  time  only  those  who  interest 
them.  If  a lecturer  cannot  engage  the  interest  of 
his  audience,  his  fame  or  greatness  or  learning  will 
pass  for  nothing.  A lecture-audience  will  forgive 


294 


THE  POFULAR  LECTUBK 


extravagance,  but  never  dulness.  They  will  give  a 
man  one  chance  to  interest  them,  and  if  he  fails, 
that  is  the  last  of  him.  The  lecture-committees 
understand  this,  and  gauge  the  public  taste  or  the 
public  humor  as  dehcately  as  the  most  accom- 
phshed  theatrical  manager.  The  man  who  receives 
their  invitation  may  generally  be  certain  that  the 
public  wish  either  to  see  or  hear  him.  Popularity 
is  the  test.  Only  popularity  after  trial,  or  notoriety 
before,  can  draw  houses.  Only  popularity  and 
notoriety  can  pay  expenses  and  swell  the  balance 
of  profit.  Notoriety  in  the  various  walks  of  life 
and  the  personal  influence  of  friends  and  admirers 
can  usually  secure  a single  hearing,  but  no  outside 
influence  can  keep  a lecturer  permanently  in  the 
field.  If  the  people  ‘‘love  to  hear”  him,  he  can 
lecture  from  Maine  to  Oahfomia  six  months  in  the 
year;  if  not,  he  cannot  get  so  much  as  a second 
invitation. 

One  of  the  noticeable  features  of  the  public  hu- 
mor in  this  matter  is  the  aversion  to  professional 
lecturers, — ^to  those  who  make  lecturing  a business, 
with  no  higher  aim  than  that  of  getting  a living. 
No  calling  or  profession  can  possibly  be  more 
legitimate  than  that  of  the  lecturer;  there  is  noth- 
ing immodest  or  otherwise  improper  in  the  adver 
tisement  of  a man’s  literary  wares;  yet  it  is  true, 
beyond  dispute,  that  the  public  do  not  regard  with 
favor  those  who  make  lecturing  their  business,  par- 
ticularly if  they  present  themselves  uninvited.  So 
well  is  this  understood  by  this  class  of  lecturers  that 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE. 


295 


a part  of  their  maciiineiy  consists  of  invitations 
numerously  signed,  which  invitations  are  written 
and  circulated  by  themselves,  their  interested 
friends,  or  their  authorized  agents,  and  published 
as  their  apology  for  appearing.  A man  who  has 
no  other  place  in  the  world  than  that  which  he 
makes  for  himself  on  the  platform  is  never  a popu- 
lar favorite,  unless  he  uses  the  platform  for  the  ad- 
vocacy of  some  great  philanthropic  movement  or 
reform,  into  which  he  throws  unselfishly  the  lead- 
ing efforts  of  his  life.  Referring  to  the  history  of 
the  last  twenty  years,  it  will  readily  be  seen  that 
those  who  have  undertaken  to  make  lecturing  a 
business,  without  side  pursuit  or  superior  aim,  are 
either  retired  from  the  field  or  are  very  low  in  the 
pub  he  favor.  The  pubhc  insist  that,  in  order  to 
be  an  acceptable  lecturer,  a man  must  be  some- 
thing else;  that  he  must  begin  and  remain  some- 
thing else;  and  it  will  be  found  to-day  that  those 
only  who  work  worthily  in  other  fields  have  a per- 
manent hold  upon  the  affections  of  lecture-going 
people.  It  is  the  pubhc  judgment  or  caprice  that 
the  Avork  of  the  lecturer  shall  be  incidental  to  some 
worthy  pursuit,  from  which  that  work  temporarily 
calls  him.  There  seems  to  be  a kind  of  coquetry 
in  this.  The  public  do  not  accept  of  those  Avho 
are  too  openly  in  the  market,  or  who  are  too  easily 
won.  They  prefer  to  entice  a man  from  his  chosen 
love,  and  account  his  favors  sweeter  because  the 
wedded  favorite  is  deprived  of  them. 

A lecturer’s  first  invitation,  in  consonance  with 


296 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE 


these  facts,  is  almost  always  suggested  by  his  ex- 
cellence or  notoriety  in  some  department  of  life 
that  may  or  may  not  be  allied  to  the  platform.  If 
a man  makes  a remarkable  speech,  he  is  very  natu- 
rally invited  to  lecture;  but  he  is  no  more  certain 
to  be  invited  than  he  who  wins  a battle.  A show- 
man gets  his  first  invitation  for  the  same  reason 
that  an  author  does, — because  ho  is  notorious. 
Nearly  all  new  men  in  the  lecture-field  are  intro- 
duced through  the  popular  desire  to  see  notorious 
or  famous  people.  A man  whose  name  is  on  the 
popular  tongue  is  a man  whom  the  popular  eye 
desires  to  see.  Such  a man  will  always  draw  one 
audience;  and  a single  occasion  is  all  that  he  is  en- 
gaged for.  After  getting  a place  upon  the  plat- 
form, it  is  for  him  to  prove  his  power  to  hold  it. 
If  he  does  not  lecture  as  well  as  he  writes,  or 
fights,  or  walks,  or  lifts,  or  leaps,  or  hunts  lions,  or 
manages  an  exhibition,  or  plays  a French  horn,  or 
does  anything  which  has  made  him  a desirable 
man  for  curious  people  to  see,  then  he  makes  way 
for  the  next  notoriety.  Very  few  courses  of  lec- 
tures are  delivered  in  the  cities  and  larger  villages 
tliat  do  not  present  at  least  one  new  man,  who  is 
invited  simply  because  people  are  curious  to  see 
him.  The  popular  desire  is  strong  to  come  in 
some  way  into  personal  contact  with  those  who  do 
remarkable  things.  They  cannot  be  chased  in  the 
street;  they  can  be  seen  only  to  a limited  extent  in 
the  drawing-room;  but  it  is  easy  to  pay  twenty-five 
cents  to  hear  them  lecture,  with  the  pri^ulege  of 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE. 


297 


looking  at  them  for  an  hour  and  criticising  them 
for  a week. 

It  is  a notewortliy  fact,  in  this  connection,  that, 
while  there  are  thousands  of  cultivated  men  who 
vrould  esteem  it  a privilege  to  lecture  for  the  lec- 
turer’s usual  fee,  there  are  hardly  more  than  twenty- 
five  in  the  country  whom  the  public  considers  it  a 
privilege  worth  paying  for  to  hear.  It  is  astonish- 
ing, that,  in  a country  so  fertile  as  this  in  the  pix>- 
duction  of  gifted  and  cultivated  men,  so  few  find  it 
possible  to  establish  themselves  upon  the  platform 
as  popular  favorites.  If  the  accepted  ones  were  in 
a number  of  obvious  particulars  alike,  there  could 
be  some  intelhgent  generalizing  upon  the  subject; 
but  men  possessing  fewer  points  of  resemblance, 
or  presen  ting  stronger  contrasts,  in  style  of  person 
and  performance,  than  the  estabhshed  favorites  of 
lecture-going  people,  cannot  be  found  in  the  world; 
and  if  any  generalization  be  attempted,  it  must  re- 
late to  matters  below  the  surface  and  beyond  the 
common  apprehension.  It  is  certain  that  not  al- 
ways the  greatest  or  the  most  brilliant  or  the  most 
accomplished  men  are  to  be  found  among  the  pop- 
ular lecturers.  A man  may  make  a great,  even  a 
briUiant  speech  on  an  important  public  question, 
and  be  utterly  dreary  in  the  lecture-room.  There 
are  multitudes  of  eloquent  clergymen  who  in  their 
pulpits  command  the  attention  of  immense  con- 
gregations, yet  who  meet  with  no  acknowledgment 
of  power  upon  the  platform. 

In  a survey  of  those  who  are  the  established  fa- 


298 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE. 


vorites,  it  will  be  found  that  there  are  no  slaves 
among  them.  The  people  will  not  accept  those 
who  are  creedbound,  or  those  who  bow  to  any 
authority  but  God  and  themselves.  They  insist 
that  those  who  address  them  shall  be  absolutely 
free,  and  that  they  shall  speak  only  for  themselves. 
Party  and  sectarian  spokesmen  find  no  j>ermanent 
place  upon  the  platform.  It  is  only  when  a lec- 
turer cuts  loose  from  all  his  conventional  belong- 
ings, and  speaks  with  thought  and  tongue  unfet- 
tered, that  he  finds  his  way  to  the  popular  heart. 
This  freedom  has  sometimes  been  considered  dan- 
gerous by  the  more  conservative  members  of  soci 
ety;  and  they  have  not  unfrequently  managed  to 
get  the  lectures  into  their  own  hands,  or  to  organize 
courses  representing  more  moderate  views  in  mat- 
ters of  society,  politics,  and  religion;  but  their  ef- 
forts have  uniformly  proved  failures.  The  people 
have  always  refused  to  support  lectures  wliich 
brought  before  them  the  bondmen  of  creeds  and 
parties.  Year  after  year  men  have  been  invited  to 
address  audiences  three  fourths  of  whom  disagreed 
utterly  with  the  sentiments  and  opinions  which  it 
was  well  understood  such  men  would  present,  sim- 
ply because  they  were  free  men,  with  minds  of 
their  own  and  tongues  that  would  speak  those 
minds  or  be  dumb.  Names  could  be  mentioned 
of  those  who  for  the  last  fifteen  years  have  been 
established  favorites  in  communities  which  listened 
to  them  respect ti ally,  nay,  applauded  them  warmly, 


THE  FOPULAR  LECTURE, 


299 


aiid  then  abused  them  for  the  remainder  of  tlio 
year. 

It  is  not  enough,  however,  that  a lecturer  be  free. 
He  must  have  something  fresh  to  say,  or  a fresh 
and  attractive  way  of  saying  that  which  is  not  alto- 
gether new.  Individuality,  and  a certain  personal 
quality  which,  for  lack  of  a better  name,  is  called 
magnetism,  are  also  essential  to  the  popular  lec- 
turer. People  desire  to  be  moved,  to  be  acted 
upon,  by  a strong  and  positive  nature.  They  like 
to  be  furnished  with  fresh  ideas,  or  with  old  ideas 
put  into  a fresh  and  practical  form,  so  that  they 
can  be  readily  apprehended  and  appropriated. 

And  here  comes  the  grand  difficulty  which  every 
lecturer  encounters,  and  over  which  so  many  stum- 
ble into  failure, — that  of  interesting  and  refreshing 
men  and  women  of  education  and  culture,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  of  pleasing,  moving,  and  instruct- 
ing those  of  feebler  acquirements  or  no  acquire- 
ments at  all.  Most  men  of  fine  powers  fail  before 
a popular  audience,  because  they  do  not  fully  ap- 
prehend the  thing  to  be  done.  They  almost  inva- 
riably write  above  the  level  of  one  half  of  their  au- 
dience, or  below  the  level  of  the  other  half.  In 
either  event,  they  fail,  and  have  the  mortification 
of  seeing  others  of  inferior  gifts  succeed  through 
a nicer  adaptation  of  their  literary  wares  to  the 
wants  of  the  market.  Much  depends  upon  the 
choice  of  a subject.  If  that  be  selected  from  those 
wliich  touch  universal  interests  and  address  com- 


800 


TEE  POFULAR  LECTURE. 


tnon  motives,  half  the  work  is  clone.  A clear,  sim- 
ple, direct  style  of  composition,  apt  illustration 
(and  the  power  of  this  is  marvellous),  and  a distinct 
and  pleasant  delivery,  will  do  much  to  complete 
the  success. 

It  is  about  equally  painful  and  amusing  to  wit 
ness  the  efforts  which  some  men  make  to  vrate 
down  to  the  supposed  capacity  of  a popular  audi- 
ence. The  puerihties  and  buffooneries  that  are 
sometimes  undertaken  by  these  men,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  conciliating  the  crowd,  certainly  amuse  the 
crowd,  and  so  answer  their  end,  though  not  in  a 
way  to  bring  reputation  to  the  actors.  No  greater 
mistake  can  j30ssibly  be  made  than  that  of  regard- 
ing an  American  lecture-going  audience  with  con- 
tempt. There  is  no  literary  tribunal  in  this  coun- 
try that  can  more  readily  and  justly  decide  whether 
a man  has  anything  to  say,  and  can  say  it  well, 
than  a lecture-audience  in  one  of  the  smaller  cities 
and  larger  villages  of  the  Northern  States.  It  is 
quite  common  to  suppose  that  a Western  audience 
demands  a lower  grade  of  literary  effort,  and  a 
rougher  style  of  speech,  than  an  Eastern  audience. 
Indeed,  there  are  those  who  suppose  that  a lecture 
which  would  fully  meet  the  demands  of  an  average 
Eastern  audience  w’ould  be  beyond  the  comprehen- 
sion of  an  average  Western  audience;  but  the  lec- 
turer who  shall  accept  any  such  assumption  as  this 
will  find  himself  very  unpleasantly  mistaken.  At 
the  West,  the  lecture  is  both  popular  and  fashion- 
able, and  the  best  people  attend  it.  A lectiu’er 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE, 


301 


may  always  be  certain,  tliere,  tbat  the  best  he  can 
do  will  be  thoroughly  appreciated.  The  West  is 
not  particularly  tolerant  of  dull  men;  but  if  a man 
be  alive,  he  will  find  a market  there  for  the  best 
thought  he  produces. 

Ill  the  larger  cities  of  the  East,  the  opera,  the 
play,  the  frequent  concert,  the  exhibition,  the  club- 
house, the  social  assembly,  and  a variety  of  public 
gatherings  and  public  excitements,  take  from  the 
lecturer-audiences  the  class  that  furnishes  the  best 
material  in  the  smaller  cities;  so  that  a lecturer 
rarely  or  never  sees  his  best  audiences  in  New 
York,  or  Boston,  or  Philadelphia. 

Another  requisite  to  popularity  upon  the  plat- 
form is  earnestness.  Those  who  imagine  that  a 
permanent  hold  upon  the  people  can  be  obtained 
by  amusing  them  are  widely  mistaken.  The  pop- 
ular lecture  has  fallen  into  disrepute  with  many 
worthy  persons  in  consequence  of  the  admission  of 
buffoons  andtrifiers  to  the  lecturer's  platform;  and 
it  is  an  evil  which  ought  to  be  remedied.  It  is  an 
evil,  indeed,  which  is  slowly  working  its  own 
remedy.  It  is  a disgi’aceful  fact,  that,  in  order  to 
draw  together  crowds  of  people,  men  have  been 
admitted  to  the  platform  whose  notoriety  was  won 
by  the  grossest  of  literaiy  charlatanism — men  whose 
only  hold  upon  the  public  was  gained  by  extrav- 
agances of  thought  and  expression  which  would 
compromise  the  dignity  and  destroy’  the  self-respect 
of  any  man  of  character  and  common  sense.  It  is 
not  enough  that  these  persons  quickly  disgust  their 


302 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE, 


audiences,  and  have  a brief  life  upon  the  list. 
They  ought  never  to  be  introduced  to  the  public 
as  lectui’ers;  and  any  momentary  augmentation  of 
receipts  that  may  be  secured  from  the  rabble  by 
the  patronage  of  such  mountebanks  is  more  than 
lost  by  the  disgrace  they  bring  and  the  damage 
they  do  to  vdiat  is  called  ‘‘The  Lecture  System.” 
It  is  an  insult  to  any  lyceum-audience  to  suppose 
that  it  can  have  a strong  and  permanent  interest  in 
a trifler;  and  it  is  a gross  injustice  to  every  respect- 
able lecturer  in  the  field  to  introduce  into  his 
guild  men  who  have  no  better  motive  and  no 
higher  mission  than  the  stage-clown  and  the  negro- 
minstrel. 

But  the  career  of  triflers  is  always  short.  Only 
he  who  feels  that  he  has  something  to  do  in  mak- 
ing the  world  wiser  and  better,  and  who,  in  a bold 
and  manly  way,  tries  persistently  to  do  it,  is  always 
welcome;  and  this  fact — an  incontrovertible  one — 
is  a sufficient  vindication  of  the  popular  lecture 
from  all  the  aspersions  that  have  been  cast  upon 
it  by  disappointed  aspirants  for  its  honors,  and 
shallow  observers  of  its  tendencies  and  results. 

The  choice  of  a subject  has  already  been  spoken 
of  as  a matter  of  importance,  and  a word  should 
be  said  touching  its  manner  of  treatment.  This  in- 
troduces a discussion  of  the  kind  of  lecture  which 
at  the  present  time  is  mainly  in  demand.  Many 
wise  and  good  men  have  questioned  the  character 
of  the  popular  lecture.  In  their  view,  it  does  not 
add  sufficiently  to  the  stock  of  po^Dular  knowledge. 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE, 


303 


The  results  are  not  solid  and  tangible.  They 
would  prefer  scientific,  or  historical,  or  philosophi- 
cal discourses.  This  conviction  is  so  strong  with 
these  men,  and  the  men  themselves  are  so  much 
respected,  that  the  people  are  inclined  to  coincide 
with  them  in  the  matter  of  theory,  while  at  the 
same  time  they  refuse  to  give  them  theory  practical 
entertainment.  One  reason  why  scientific  and 
historical  lectures  are  not  popular,  is  to  be  found 
in  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  lecturers  who  have 
sufficient  ingenuity  and  enthusiasm  to  make  such 
lectures  interesting.  The  number  of  men  in  the 
United  States  who  can  make  such  lectures  attrac- 
tive to  popular  audiences  can  be  counted  on  the 
fingers  of  a single  hand.  We  have  had  but  one 
universally  popular  lecturer  on  astronomy  in  twenty 
years,  and  he  is  now  numbered  among  the  precious 
sacrifices  of  the  Avar.  There  is  only  one  entirely 
acceptable  popular  lecturer  on  natural  sciences  in 
New  England;  and  what  is  he  among  so  many? 

But  this  class  of  lectures  has  not  been  widely 
successful,  even  under  the  most  favorable  circum- 
stances, and  with  the  very  best  lecturers;  and  it  is 
to  be  observed,  that  they  grow  less  successful  witli 
the  increasing  intelligence  of  the  people.  In  this 
fact  is  to  be  found  an  entirely  rational  and  compe- 
tent  explanation  of  their  failure.  The  schools  have 
done  so  much  toAvard  poiDularizing  science,  and  the 
circulating-library  has  rendered  so  familiar  the 
prominent  facts  of  history,  that  men  and  women 
do  not  go  to  the  lecture  to  learn,  and,  as  far  as  any 


304 


THE  FOFULAR  LECTURE, 


appreciable  practical  benefit  is  concerned,  do  not 
need  to  go.  It  is  only  when  some  eminent  enthu- 
siast in  these  walks  of  learning  consents  to  address 
them  that  they  come  out,  and  then  it  is  rather  to 
place  themselves  under  the  influence  of  his  person- 
ality than  to  acquire  the  knowledge  which  he  dis- 
penses. Facts,  if  they  are  identified  in  any  special 
way  with  the  experience  and  life  of  the  lecturer, 
are  always  acceptable;  but  facts  which  are  recorded 
in  books  find  a poor  market  in  the  popular  lecture- 
room.  Thus,  while  purely  historical  and  scientific 
lectures  are  entirely  neglected,  narratives  of  per- 
sonal travel,  which  combine  much  of  liistorical  and 
scientific  interest,  have  been  quite  popular,  and, 
indeed,  have  been  the  specialities  of  more  than 
one  of  the  most  popular  of  American  lecturers, 
whose  names  Avill  be  suggested  at  once  by  this 
statement. 

Twenty  years  ago  the  first  popular  lectures  on 
anatomy  and  physiology  were  given,  and  a corps 
of  lecturers  came  up  and  swept  over  the  whole 
country,  with  much  of  interest  and  instruction  to 
the  i^eople  and  no  small  profit  to  themselves. 
These  lectures  called  the  attention  of  educators  to 
these  sciences.  Text-books  for  schools  and  col- 
leges were  prepared,  and  anatomy  and  physiology 
became  common  studies  for  the  young.  In  vari- 
ous ways,  through  school-books  and  magazines  and 
newspajDers,  there  has  accumulated  a stock  of  pop- 
ular loiowledge  of  these  sciences,  and  an  apprehen- 
sion of  the  limit  of  their  practical  usefulness,  which 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE 


805 


have  quite  destroyed  the  demand  for  lectures  upon 
them.  Though  a new  generation  has  risen  since 
the  lecture  on  anatomy  and  physiology  was  the 
rage,  no  leaner  field  could  possibly  be  found  than 
that  which  the  country  now  presents  to  the  popular 
lecturer  on-  these  sciences.  These  facts  are  inter- 
esting ill  themselves,  and  they  serve  to  illustrate 
the  truth  of  that  which  has  been  stated  touching 
lectures  upon  general  historical  and  scientific  sub- 
jects. 

For  facts  alone  the  modern  American  public 
does  not  go  hungry.  American  life  is  crowded 
with  facts,  to  which  the  newspaper  gives  daily  rec- 
ord and  diffusion.  Ideas,  motives,  thoughts,  these 
are  always  in  demand.  Men  wish  for  nothing 
more  than  to  know  how  to  classify  their  facts, 
what  to  do  with  them,  how  to  -govern  them,  and 
how  far  to  be  governed  by  them;  and  the  man 
who  takes  the  facts  with  which  the  popular  life 
has  come  into  contact  and  association,  and  draws 
from  them  their  nutritive  and  motive  power,  and 
points  out  their  relations  to  individual  and  univer- 
sal good,  and  organizes  around  them  the  popular 
thought,  and  uses  them  to  give  direction  to  the 
poiDular  hfe,  and  does  all  this  with  masterly  skill, 
is  the  man  whose  liouses  are  never  large  enough  to 
contain  those  who  throng  to  hear  him.  This  is 
the  popular  lecturer,  par  excellence.  The  people^ 
have  an  earnest  desire  to  know"  what  a strong, 
dependent,  free  man  has  to  say  about  those  facts 
which  touch  the  experience,  the  direction,  and  the 


306 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE 


duty  of  their  daily  life;  and  the  lecturer  who  with 
a hearty  human  sympathy  addresses  himself  to  this 
desire,  and  enters  upon  the  service  with  genuine 
enthusiasm,  wins  the  highest  reward  there  is  to  be 
won  in  his  field  of  effort. 

The  more  ill-natured  critics  of  the  popular  lec- 
turer have  reflected  with  ridicule  upon  his  habit  of 
repetition.  A lecturer  in  full  employment  wiU  de- 
liver the  same  discourse  perhaps  fifty  or  a hundred 
times  in  a single  season.  There  are  probably  half 
a dozen  favorite  lectures  which  have  been  delivered 
from  two  hundred  to  five  hundred  times  within 
the  last  fifteen  years.  It  does,  indeed,  at  first 
glance,  seern  ridiculous  for  a man  to  stand,  night 
after  night,  and  deliver  the  same  words,  with  the 
original  enthusiasm  apparently  at  its  full  height; 
and  some  lecturers,  with  an  extra  spice  of  mirth- 
fulness in  their  composition,  have  given  public  rec- 
ord of  their  impressions  in  this  respect.  There 
are,  however,  certain  facts  to  be  considered  which 
at  least  relieve  him  from  the  charge  of  hterary 
sterility.  A lecture  often  becomes  famous,  and  is 
demanded  by  each  succeeding  audience,  whatever 
the  lecturer’s  preferences  may  be.  There  are  lec- 
tures called  for  every  year  by  audiences  and  com- 
mittees which  the  lecturer  would  be  glad  never  to 
see  again,  and  which  he  never  would  see  again,  if 
he  were  to  consult  his  own  judgment  alone.  Then 
the  popular  lecturer,  as  has  been  already  intimated, 
is  usually  engaged  during  two  tliirds  of  the  year  in 
some  business  or  profession  whose  duties  forbid  the 


TEE  POEVLAR  LECTURE 


307 


worthy  preparation  of  more  than  one  discoui'se  for 
winter  use.  Then,  if  he  has  numerous  engage- 
ments, he  has  neither  time  nor  strength  to  do  more 
than  his  mighty  work;  for,  among  all  the  pursuits 
in  which  literary  men  engage,  none  is  more  ex- 
haustive ill  its  demands  upon  the  nervous  energy 
than  that  of  constant  lecturing.  The  fulfilment  of 
from  seventy-five  to  ninety  engagements  involves, 
in  round  numbers,  ten  thousand  miles  of  railroad- 
travel,  much  of  it  in  the  night,  and  all  of  it  during 
the  most  unpleasant  season  of  the  year.  There  is 
probably  nothing  short  of  a military  campaign  that 
is  attended  by  so  many  discomforts  and  genuine 
hardships  as  a season  of  active  lecturing.  Unless 
a man  be  young  and  endowed  with  an  extraordi- 
nary amount  of  vital  power,  he  becomes  entirely 
unfitted  by  his  mighty  work,  and  the  dissipation 
consequent  upon  constant  change  of  scene,  for  con- 
secutive thought  and  elaborate  composition. 

It  is  fortunate  for  the  lecturer  that  there  is  no 
necessity  for  variety.  The  oft-repeated  lecture  is 
new  to  each  new  audience,  and,  being  thoroughly 
in  hand,  and  entirely  familiar,  is  delivered  with 
better  effect  than  if  the  speaker  were  frequently 
choosing  from  a well-furnished  repertory.  It  is 
popularly  supposed  that  a lecturer  loses  all  interest 
in  a performance  which  he  repeats  so  many  times. 
This  supposition  is  correct,  in  certain  aspects  of 
the  matter,  but  not  in  any  sense  which  detracts 
from  his  power  to  make  it  interesting  to  others. 
It  is  the  general  experience  of  lecturers,  that,  until 


308 


TEE  POPULAR  LECTURE 


they  have  delivered  a discourse  from  ten  to  twenty 
times,  they  are  themselves  unable  to  measure  its 
power;  so  that  a performance  which  is  offered  at 
first  timidly,  and  with  many  doubts,  comes  at 
length  to  be  delivered  confidently,  and  with  meas- 
urable certainty  of  acceptance  and  success.  The 
grand  interest  of  a lecturer  is  in  his  new  audience 
— in  his  experiment  on  an  assembly  of  fresh  minds. 
The  lecture  itself  is  regarded  only  as  an  instru- 
ment by  which  a desirable  and  important  result  is 
to  be  achieved;  and  familiarity  with  it,  and  steady 
use  in  its  elocutionary  handling,  are  conditions  of 
the  best  success.  Having  selected  the  subject 
which,  at  the  time,  and  for  the  times,  he  considers 
freshest  and  most  fruitful,  and  with  thorough*  care 
written  out  all  he  has  to  say  upon  it,  there  is  no 
call  for  recurrence  to  minor  themes,  either  as  re- 
gards the  credit  of  the  lecturer  or  the  best  interests 
of  those  whom  he  addresses. 

What  good  has  the  popular  lecture  accomphshed? 
Its  most  enthusiastic  advocates  will  not  assert  that 
it  has  added  greatly  to  the  stock  of  popular  knowl- 
edge, in  science,  or  art,  in  history,  philosophy,  or 
literature;  yet  the  most  modest  of  them  may  claim 
that  it  has  bestowed  upon  American  society  a per- 
manent good  of  incalculable  value.  The  relentless 
foe  of  all  bigotry  in  politics  and  religion,  the  con- 
stant opponent  of  every  form  of  bondage  to  party 
and  sect,  the  practical  teacher  of  the  broadest  tol- 
eration of  individual  opinion,  it  has  had  more  to  do 
with  the  steady  melioration  of  the  prejudices  grow- 


TEE  FOP UL Alt  LECTURE. 


309 


ing  out  of  denominational  interests  in  Church  and 
State  than  any  other  agency  whatever.  The  plat- 
form of  the  lecture-hall  has  been  common  ground 
for  the  representatives  of  all  our  social,  political, 
and  religious  organizations.  It  is  there  that  ortho- 
dox and  heterodox,  progreasive  and  conservative, 
have  won  respect  for  themselves  and  toleration  for 
their  opinions  by  the  demonstration  of  their  own 
manhood,  and  the  recognition  of  the  common  hu- 
man brotherhood;  for  one  has  only  to  prove  him- 
self a true  man,  and  to  show  a universal  sympathy 
with  men,  to  secure  popular  toleration  for  any 
opinion  he  may  hold.  Hardly  a decade  has  passed 
away  since,  in  nearly  every  Northern  State,  men 
suffered  social  depreciation  in  consequence  of  their 
political  and  religious  opinions.  Party  and  secta- 
rian names  have  been  freely  used  as  reproachful 
and  even  as  disgraceful  epithets.  To  call  a man 
by  the  name  which  he  had  chosen  as  the  represen- 
tative of  his  pohtical  or  rehgious  opinions  was  con- 
sidered equivalent  to  calling  him  a knave  or  a fool; 
and  if  it  happened  that  he  was  in  the  minority,  his 
name  alone  was  regarded  as  the  stamp  of  social 
degradation.  Now,  thanks  to  the  influence  of  the 
popular  lecture  mainly,  men  have  made,  and  are 
rapidly  making,  room  for  each  other.  A man  may 
be  in  the  minority  now  without  consequently  being 
in  personal  disgrace.  Men  of  liberal  and  even  lati- 
tudinarian  views  are  generously  received  in  ortho- 
dox communities,  and  those  of  orthodox  faith  are 
gladly  welcomed  by  men  who  subscribe  to  a short- 


310 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE, 


er  creed  and  bear  a broader  charter  of  life  and  lib- 
erty. There  certainly  has  never  been  a time  in 
the  history  of  America  when  there  was  such  gener- 
ous and  general  toleration  of  all  men  and  all  opin- 
ions as  now;  and  as  the  popular  lecture  has  been 
universal,  with  a determined  aim  and  a manifest 
influence  toward  this  end,  it  is  but  fair  to  claim  for 
it  a prominent  agency  in  the  result. 

Another  good  which  may  be  counted  among  the 
fruits  of  the  popular  lecture,  is  the  education  of 
the  public  taste  in  intellectual  amusements.  The 
end  which  the  lecture-goer  seeks  is  not  always  im- 
provement, in  any  respect.  Multitudes  of  men 
and  women  have  attended  the  lecture  to  be  inter- 
ested; and  to  be  interested  intellectually  is  to  be 
intellectually  amused.  Lecturers  who  have  ap- 
pealed simply  to  the  emotional  nature,  without  at- 
tempting to  engage  the  intellect,  have  ceased  to  be 
popular  favorites.  So  far  as  the  popular  lecture 
has  taken  hold  of  the  affections  of  a community, 
and  secured  its  constant  support,  it  has  destroyed 
the  desire  for  all  amusements  of  a lower  grade: 
and  it  will  be  found  that,  generally,  those  w^ho  at- 
tend the  lecture  rarely  or  never  give  their  patron- 
age and  presence  to  the  buffooneries  of  the  day. 
They  have  found  something  better — something 
with  more  of  flavor  in  the  eating,  with  more  of 
nutriment  in  the  digestion.  How  great  a good  this 
is,  those  only  can  judge  w^ho  reahze  that  men  will 
have  amusements  of  some  sort,  and  that,  if  they 
cannot  obtain  such  as  will  elevate  them,  they  will 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE. 


311 


indulge  in  such  as  are  frivolous  and  dissipating. 
The  lecture  does  quite  as  much  for  elevated  amuse- 
ment out  of  the  hall  as  in  it.  The  quickening  so- 
cial influence  of  an  excellent  lecture,  particularly 
in  a community  where  hfe  flows  sluggishly  and  all 
are  absorbed  in  manual  labor,  is  as  remarkable  as 
it  is  beneficent.  The  lecture  and  the  lecturer  are 
the  common  topics  of  discussion  for  a week,  and 
the  conversation  which  is  so  apt  to  chng  to  health 
and  the  weather  is  raised  above  the  level  of  com- 
monplace. 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  a moiety,  or  a ma- 
jority, of  the  popular  lecturers  are  clergymen,  the 
lecture  has  not  always  received  the  favor  of  the 
cloth.  Indeed,  there  has  often  been  private  and 
sometimes  public  complaint  on  the  part  of  preach- 
ers, that  the  finished  productions  of  the  lecturer, 
the  results  of  long  and  patient  elaboration,  rendered 
doubly  attractive  by  a style  of  dehvery  to  be  won 
only  by  frequent  repetition  of  the  same  discourse, 
have  brought  the  hastily  prepared  and  plainly  pre- 
sented Sunday  sermon  into  an  unjust  and  damag- 
ing comparison.  The  complaint  is  a strange  one, 
particularly  as  no  one  has  ever  claimed  that  the 
highest  style  of  eloquence  or  the  most  remarkable 
models  of  rhetoric  are  to  be  found  in  the  lecture- 
hall.  There  has,  at  least,  been  no  general  convic- 
tion that  a standard  of  excellence  in  English  and 
its  utterance  has  been  maintained  there  too  high 
for  the  comfort  and  credit  of  the  pulpit.  It  is  pos- 
sible, therefore,  that  the  pulpit  betrays  its  weak 


312 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE 


point,  and  needs  the  comparison  which  it  depre- 
cates. A man  of  brains  will  gratefully  receive  sug- 
gestions from  any  quarter.  That  impulses  to  a 
more  famihar  and  direct  style  of  sermonizing,  a 
brighter  and  better  elocution,  and  a bolder  utter- 
ance of  personal  convictions,  have  come  to  the  pul- 
pit from  the  platform,  there  is  no  question.  This 
feeling  on  the  part  of  preachers  is  by  no  means 
universal,  however;  for  some  of  them  have  long  re- 
garded the  lecture  with  contempt,  and  have  some- 
times resented  it  as  an  impertinence.  And  it  may 
be  (for  there  shall  be  no  quarrel  in  the  matter)  that 
lecturers,  are  quacks,  and  that  lectures,  like  homoeo- 
pathic remedies,  are  very  contemptible  things;  but 
they  have  pleasantly  modified  the  doses  of  the  old 
practice,  however  slow  the  doctors  are  to  confess  it; 
and  so  much,  at  least,  may  be  counted  among  the 
beneficent  results  of  the  system  under  discussion. 

Last  in  the  brief  enumeration  of  the  benefits  of 
the  popular  lecture,  it  has  been  the  devoted,  con- 
sistent, never-tiring  champion  of  universal  hberty. 
If  the  popular  lecturer  has  not  been  a power  in 
this  nation  for  the  overthrow  of  American  slavery 
— for  its  overthrow  in  the  conscientious  convictions 
and  the  legal  and  conventional  fastnesses  of  the  na- 
tion— then  have  the  friends  of  oppression  grossly 
lied;  for  none  have  received  their  mahcious  and 
angry  objurgations  more  unsparingly  than  our 
plain-speaking  gentleman  who  makes  his  yearly 
circuit  among  the  lyceums.  No  champion  of 
slavery,  no  advocate  of  privilege,  no  apologist  for 


THE  POPULAn  LECTURE 


313 


systematized  and  legalized  wrong  lias  ever  been 
ible  to  establish  himself  as  a popular  lecturer. 
The  people  may  listen  respectfully  to  such  a man 
once;  but,  having  heard  him,  they  drop  him  for- 
ever. In  truth,  a man  cannot  be  a popular  lec- 
turer who  does  not  plant  himself  upon  the  eternal 
principles  of  justice.  He  must  be  a democrat,  a 
behever  in  and  an  advocate  of  the  equal  rights  of 
men.  A slavery-loving,  slavery-uj)holding  lecturer 
would  be  just  as  much  of  an  anomaly  as  a slavery- 
loving  and  slavery-singing  poet.  The  taint  so 
vitiates  the  whole  aesthetic  nature,  so  poisons  the 
moral  sense,  so  palsies  the  finer  powers,  so  destroys 
all  true  sympathy  with  universal  humanity,  that 
the  com]DOsition  of  an  acceptable  lecture  becomes 
imj)ossible  to  the  man  who  bears  it.  The  j)opular 
lectm’e,  as  it  has  been  described  in  this  discussion, 
has  never  existed  at  the  South,  and  could  not  be 
tolerated  there.  Until  within  four  years  it  has 
never  found  opportunity  for  utterance  in  the  capi- 
tal of  the  nation;  but  where  hberty  goes,  it  makes 
its  way,  and  helps  to  break  the  way  for  liberty 
everywhere. 

It  is  a noteworthy  fact,  that  the  popular  lecturer, 
though  the  devoted  advocate  of  freedom  to  the 
slave,  has  rarely  been  regarded  as  either  a trust- 
worthy or  an  important  man  in  the  party  which 
has  represented  his  principles  in  this  country.  He 
has  always  been  too  free  to  be  a partisan,  too  radi- 
cal and  intractable  for  a party  seeking  xiowei  or 
striving  to  preserve  it.  No  party  of  any  consider- 


314 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE 


able  magnitude  has  ever  regarded  him  as  its  expo- 
sitor. A thousand  times  have  party-speakers  and 
party-organs,  j)rofessing  j)iinciples  identical  with 
his  own,  washed  their  hands  of  all  responsibihty 
for  his  utterances.  Even  now,  when  the  sound  of 
falling  shackles  is  in  the  air,  and  the  smoke  of  the 
torment  of  the  oppressor  fills  the  sky,  old  partisans 
of  freedom  cannot  quite  forget  their  stupid  and 
hackneyed  animosities,  but  still  bemoan  the  bale- 
ful influence  of  this  fiery  itinerant.  Eepresenta- 
tive  of  none  but  himself,  disowned  or  hated  by  ail 
parties,  acknov/ledging  responsibility  to  God  and 
his  own  conscience  only,  he  has  done  his  work, 
and  done  it  well — done  it  amid  careful  question- 
ings and  careless  curses-  -done  it,  and  been  royally 
paid  for  it,  when  speakers  who- fairly  represented 
the  political  and  religious  prejudices  of  the  peo- 
ple could  not  have  called  around  them  a baker’s 
dozen,  with  tickets  at  half-price  or  at  no  price  at 
all. 

When  the  cloud  which  now  envelops  the  country 
shall  gather  up  its  sulphurous  folds  and  roll  away, 
tinted  in  its  retiring  by  the  smile  of  God  beaming 
from  a calm  sky  upon  a nation  redeemed  to  free- 
dom and  justice,  and  the  historian,  in  the  fight  of 
that  sinile,  shall  trace  home  to  their  fountains  the 
streams  of  influence  and  power  which  will  then 
join  to  form  the  river  of  the  national  life,  he  will 
find  one,  starting  far  inland  among  the  mountains, 
longer  than  the  rest  and  mightier  than  most,  and 


THE  POPULAR  LECTURE 


315 


will  recognize  it  as  the  confluent  outpouring  of  liv- 
ing, Christian  speech,  from  ten  thousand  lecture- 
platforms,  on  which  free  men  stood  and  vindicated 
the  right  of  man  to  freedom. 


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